“The sun puts itself to bed,” Andree said, using the French locution.
“I’ll light the lights,” he replied, and, walking to the windows, closed the heavy iron shutters and drew the curtains as the law required him to do before he illuminated the room. He was glad of something to do to cover the awkwardness he felt in those first moments.
“Sit by me,” she said, softly.
She was not embarrassed, was, indeed, perfectly normal, unexcited, at ease; her manner was very gentle, very sweet. Her every look, every gesture, seemed to declare her love and her joy in his love. There was a quiet assurance in her manner; the sure trace of present happiness which would not tolerate a shadow on this night.... She was her own self, dainty, genuine, wonderfully appealing. It seemed as if she had lived all her life for this moment so that she could unfold under the touch of the marvel of love and become wholly admirable.... She was beautiful, as was fitting, beautiful with the loveliness that can come only from a soul not warring with the laws of God. Untroubled by doubt or question, she reassured him, gave him renewed confidence in her goodness, her rightness, her purity.... Her moment of happiness had come to her, and she looked into the brightness of it with unwavering eyes that saw nothing to fear, nothing to conceal—saw only love.
He sat beside her and she nestled close to him, touching his hand, lifting her deep-shadowed eyes to his—and then she smiled.
“Mignonne!” he whispered, tenderly.
“Tell me,” she said. “Say it—quickly.”
“I love you,” he responded, and she sighed softly, closing her eyes, and was silent. So still was she that he might have fancied her asleep but for the pressure of her fingers upon his own. After a time she spoke again:
“It is well—ver’ well—to love.”
“Yes.... But—you are not afraid. Do you remember the last time you were here you cried? You were afraid.”