She could not kill the happiness in her eyes; but she made them grave for his behoof.
“If we might talk,” she said; “knowing what we know, but never alluding to it; keeping for ever that dear secret—even from one another.”
“For ever!” he said. “Well, what have we to do with time? I would rather be mad than sane. Talk on, sweet music.”
“I have so much to say—and yet I have nothing. I think you have come into my heart, and that no words are needed there.”
“Yet we must talk, being mortal, for lucidity’s sake. Tell me, how did I steal in?”
“I cannot. Your voice made me sorry; and then—my own cruelty. Were you thinking of that when you sang to Bissy?”
“I suppose so.”
“I was frightened of myself, monsieur.”
“Monsieur?”
“What can I call you?”