he longed to stretch out his arms and clasp the round waist, the graceful shoulders, the charms which every line of the dark blue dress outlined or concealed.
It would be so much easier, so much more natural, to ask her then the question which he knew he must that day ask her, when she could guess, from the beating of his heart, the meaning of the words which might come incoherently; if he could but once touch her lips with his own, the frosty spell that held him silent would be broken and he could give words to the feelings which troubled him. If he only dared—they were alone—why not? Why should he not woo her as he had the flaxen-haired German girl who now loved him as she had ever since the day when they had first kissed in the shadow of the Black Forest. Poor Frieda! why should he remember her, so long since deserted, on this splendid day, when he sat at the feet of another woman whom he loved with the full force of his being?
