He moved quickly and glanced sharply at
Corona's velvet eyes. Before the words that were on his lips could
be spoken he remembered all the secret reverence and respect he
had felt for this woman since he had first known her, he
remembered how he had always regarded her as a sort of goddess, a
superior being, at once woman and angel, placed far beyond the
reach of mortals like himself. His irritation vanished as quickly
as it had arisen. But Corona had seen it.
"Are you angry?" she asked.
"If you knew how I worship you, you would know that I am not,"
answered Gouache with a strange simplicity.
For an instant the princess's deep eyes flashed and a dark blush
mounted through her olive skin. She drew back, rather proudly. A
delicate, gentle smile played round the soldier's mouth.
"Perhaps it is your turn to be angry, Madame," he said, quietly.
"But you need not be. I would say it to your husband, as I would
say it to you in his presence. I worship you. You are the most
beautiful woman in the world, the most nobly good. Everybody knows
it, why should I not say it? I wish I were a little child, and
that you were my mother. Are you angry still?"
Corona was silent, and her eyes grew soft again as she looked
kindly at the man beside her.
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