“You do love me!” she whispered, assertive. And his hands stroked her softly, as if she were a flower, without the quiver of desire, but with delicate nearness. And still there haunted her a restless necessity to get a grip on love.

“Say you’ll always love me!” she pleaded.

“Ay!” he said, abstractedly. And she felt her questions driving him away from her.

“Mustn’t we get up?” he said at last.

“No!” she said.

But she could feel his consciousness straying, listening to the noises outside.

“It’ll be nearly dark,” he said. And she heard the pressure of circumstance in his voice. She kissed him, with a woman’s grief at yielding up her hour.