He was holding her hand. Slowly he unbuttoned her glove. She watched him idly. He drew it off and raised the slender fingers to his lips.
“You always told me I had beautiful hands.”
He kissed the fingers separately and then the palm, which was delicate as a rose-leaf.
“And don’t miss the little mole on the back; mother used to say that it told her when I had been bad.”
So he kissed the little mole on the back as well. Curious that he should take so little, when his heart cried out for so much! His head was swimming. He felt nothing, saw nothing but her presence.
“I wouldn’t have let you do that once,” she whispered.
In the long silence that followed, the snow-laden trees shivered, muttering their suspense. Each time he tried to meet her eyes, she looked away as though his glance scorched her.
“My dear! My dearest!”
She did not answer.
“I love you. I’ve always loved you. I can’t live without you. You’re more to me than anything in the world.”