"And," I concluded, "I am going to build you a new temple which will make the Taj Mahal a tawdry mosque, for every block and rafter will be love, and each year we live I shall add new minarets of worship—and not only five times each day but a hundred, its muezzin shall call me to prayer."
Her eyes were glowing, and her laugh trembled.
"I came quite a long way," she told me, "to make you say that, but after all you have done it very nicely."
"But," I admitted after a long pause, "I don't yet understand—not that it matters now—but why? That word is beating at my brain—why in the names of all the gods should you care?"
"Why shouldn't I?" she indignantly countered.
"You have known me," I said blankly, "a few days—and I should have imagined that I made a sorry impression."
She laughed again.
"I have known you always," she replied.
I shook my head wonderingly.
"Listen," she commanded. "Once upon a time—that's the way all fairy stories start—I saw you. You didn't notice me much. I was just a kid, but I fell in love with you. To be exact, it was ten years ago this month."