He looked down at her, and put his hand on her shoulder, white and warm and responsive to his touch.
"Lenore, let it be soon. We will not wait. Why should we? Let us make ourselves and all the rest of them happy."
"Will it make you happy?" she asked.
It was a dangerous question, but the impulse was too strong.
"Yes," he said, and indeed he thought so. "Can you say the same, Lenore?"
She did not answer, but she took his hand and laid it against her cheek. It was the action of a slave—a beautiful and exquisitely-graceful woman, but a slave.
He drew his hand away and winced with remorse.
"Come," he said, bending over her, "let me tell them that it shall be next month."
"So soon?" she murmured.
"Yes," he said, almost impatiently. "Why should we wait? They are all impatient. I am impatient, naturally, but they all wish it. Let it be next month, Lenore."