"I love you, Amor, I love you."
"My Phyllida."
"Amor, dear, dear Amor."
"'Tis not my name, dear one."
"'Tis the name you told me."
"My name is Vernon."
"To me you will always be Amor. Amor means Love. I asked the Archdeacon and he told me that Amor meant Love."
Vernon was taken outside of himself. As he kissed those lips more soft than the petals of flowers, the other lips he had known seemed cracked and dry. In the darkness, he felt her eyelashes upon his cheek as they drooped to a blush, and a passion of remorse swept over him. He would wed this child at the end of the journey. He would love her for ever. That was certain. Oh, yes, there was no doubt he would love her for ever. He had plucked this flower in a wanton moment, had thought to wear her for a scented month and fling her away. O execrable intent!
"My Phyllida, my Phyllida! Why do you love me?"
"Why do you love me?" Her hand nestled in his.