“And it can never happen again,” she said, as much to herself as to him.
“Why can’t it?” he demanded.
“How can it?” she quietly countered.
“But I intend to make it!” he cried.
She sat back against the arbor railing, apparently startled by the passion in his voice.
“I’d rather you didn’t say things like that,” she told him.
“Why?” he asked.
“I want you to be always wonderful to me.”
“But I mean it,” he said, his voice shaking.
She stood up with what seemed her first gesture of timidity. He could see her face, flower soft, in the ragged square of moonlight which fell across her shoulders. He rose to his feet and stood beside her, with his pulses pounding. Then in the silence he reached out for her hand and turned her about so that she faced him.