‘Alack! the end comes always—even to summer days. I have heard talk of London; but I know not—only fear. Brion, will you never forget me?’
‘I live only for you, Joan, and ever shall. Your very name is music to my ears.’
She bent her head down, not answering for awhile.
‘Would you—would you love me even as now, if——’
‘If what?’
‘If you came to find me in some sort other than the blameless maid of your fancy?’
‘To be blameless is, methinks, to be insipid. I do not want you blameless, Joan, but only to be my loving dear.’
‘I shall always be that, Brion, if I live to a hundred.’
They were loath to part; but clung to one another and to these last moments, as if in some indefinite way they felt in them the running out of the golden sands. But the end had to come, and when at last they rose, each to go its road, in a passionate impulse the boy flung his arms about his comrade’s neck, and set his lips to hers in a long kiss which this time she made no effort to resist or to withdraw from.
Alas, how easily things go wrong!