'Will you really?—and after that?'
'And after that—and on and on till—— Can it ever be a tale too often told?'
'Never, never! But what has become of my rose? Give me another one. Let it be a "Stella" rose. What stupid people have the naming of flowers!'
'Oh, yes! and of most things. If only lovers were among the convocations that decide saintship, how easily the ultimate distinction of the Church would be obtained!'
'But the truest saints never get canonized, St. Stella—"ora pro nobis." Why that stifled sigh, my little heretic?'
'May I not sigh any more when I wish?'
'Yes, while I am away. Oh, I think I must set off to-morrow!'
'So that I may sigh?'
'So that I may return quickly. Ah, Stella darling, I have been waiting for you so long; and now I have found you—I have found you, in spite of everything!'
They fell into the sweet, endless repetitions of lovers' talk—grave and gay by turns. The sun was setting before Langdale could tear himself away. And then, before he rode off, Stella walked with him to the passion-flower bridge; and there they lingered till a great white star glowed in the rose twilight of the west, which spread far up, almost to the zenith of the sky. This great roseate wave of colour was a beautiful phenomenon of the season, and increased in brilliancy as the summer drew near.