It seemed to Penelope that she could almost hear her heart beat.

The blood in her veins was dancing to the one perfect waltz.

The moments passed.

She drew a little breath and ventured to look at him.

His face was still and white, as though, indeed, it had been carved out of marble, but the fire in his eyes was a living thing.
"We have actually been talking nonsense," she said, "and I thought that you, Prince, were far too serious." "We were talking fairy tales," he answered, "and they are not nonsense.
Do not you ever read the history of your country as it was many hundreds of years ago, before this ugly thing they call civilization weakened the sinews of our race and besmirched the very face of duty?
Do you not like to read of the times when life was simpler and more natural, and there was space for every man to live and grow and stretch out his hands to the skies,--every man and every woman?
They call them, in your literature, the days of romance.