"I love you!"
He uttered a low, sharp cry, the expression of his heart's delight, his soul's triumph.
"You love me! Ida! How—how do you know—when?" She shook her head and sighed, as she pressed her cheek against his breast.
"I don't know. It was just now—the moment when you kissed me. Then it came to me suddenly—the knowledge—the truth. It was as if a flash of light had revealed it to me. Oh, yes, I love you. I wish—almost I wish that I did not, for—it hurts me!"
She pressed her hand to her heart, and gazed up at him with the wonder of a child who is meeting its first experience of the strange commingling of pain and joy.
He raised her in his arms until her face was against his.
"I know—dearest," he said, almost in a whisper. "It is love—it is always so, I think. My heart is aching with longing for you, and yet I am happy—my God, how happy! And you? Tell me, Ida?"
"Yes, I am happy," she breathed, with a deep sigh, as she nestled still closer to him. "It is all so strange—so unreal!"
"Not unreal, dearest," he said, as they walked under the trees, her head against his shoulder, his arm round her waist and supporting her. "It is real enough, this love of mine—which will last me till my death, I know; and yours?"
She gazed straight before her dreamily.