'Tell me, my own, that you are not offended,' he said, drawing nearer to her.
'No, I am not offended,' she said at last, her voice lower than a whisper.
'And do you know—oh, you cannot know—how I love you, with my whole heart and soul, as a man can love but once in his life!'
A fantail began suddenly to sing near them as if its heart would break with joy—the selfsame bird that trilled its golden carol above the vine-arcade when he came back in the Pâquerette four months later on! What strange confusion of time!
'You must not say more till you return,' she said, looking up at him, vainly trying to smile. The full knowledge that he loved her filled her with joy so keen that it bordered on pain.
'But, Stella, I must say more. I must hear you tell me that you love me just a little; say it, Stella—say "Anselm, I love you a little!"'
'But—Anselm—that would not be true.'
'Stella—my own sweet love—do not trifle with me.'
'Yes, it would be untrue, for I love you'—there was a pause in which he could not breathe, till the words came with a great thrill of gladness—'more than I can say.'
He knelt down by her side and folded her in his arms. Their lips met in a long, long kiss.