When he recalled it later, he would find as much value that confession sober as he did now, under the intoxication of ardent, romantic delusion. But that she loved him – in any capacity at all, as a dear friend, a kindred soul – felt terribly right and true and it was enough for Endymion to survive on even then.
My dearest, darling, Mr. Dempsey; the very lilting loveliness of that was poetry to his ear. She looked as mischievous as ever, and had given his hand a tempting squeeze, but Endymion finally surrendered to her anyway, content to play servant to her whims. She wanted to disguise the secret feeling of this meeting beneath propriety... and she would hear his proposal again.
(Endymion, rueful and hungover on artificial love in the morning, would be of no mind to ask her again. But he would remember that small seed of sentiment that rang true, I do love you, and he would understand, then, that in the strangest of ways, he felt entirely the same. He was fortunate to know her, albeit as a very dear friend.)
My dearest, darling, Mr. Dempsey; the very lilting loveliness of that was poetry to his ear. She looked as mischievous as ever, and had given his hand a tempting squeeze, but Endymion finally surrendered to her anyway, content to play servant to her whims. She wanted to disguise the secret feeling of this meeting beneath propriety... and she would hear his proposal again.
(Endymion, rueful and hungover on artificial love in the morning, would be of no mind to ask her again. But he would remember that small seed of sentiment that rang true, I do love you, and he would understand, then, that in the strangest of ways, he felt entirely the same. He was fortunate to know her, albeit as a very dear friend.)
