“More. I couldn’t paint your voice.”
She stretched out her hands toward it. “Oh, I wish—I wish I could have it.”
He tilted up her face. “Little English girl, it’s yours. I did it for you. You’ll know now how you looked when your beauty dies.”
Tears came. It was like the world complaining against God’s injustice. “But I don’t want it to die.”
He drew her head against him. “Kay—what an English name! Little Kay, one thing will keep it alive.” She waited. “The great secret,” he whispered; “it lies behind all life. For other people your beauty will have vanished; a man who loves you will always see it.”
Before she was aware, he had touched her lips. If was as though he had stained her purity.
On the sail back to San Terenzo, as the darkness drew about them, she crept closer to Harry. He felt her hand groping for his own. “Kiddy, you’re burning—as hot as a coal. What is it? A touch of fever?”
She spoke chokingly. “Harry, my lips. They’re yours.”