“—that if you or I,” he went on determined to make his point, “ceased to love, it would be profanation to—pretend—to live as if we did, wouldn’t it?”
“But, George,” with a note of pain, with the brightening of tears in her eyes, “we shall be one. It says so everywhere, in the Bible, in the vows we take, that we are one flesh. Then how can either of us cease to love?”
“We won’t; we never shall,” he cried eloquently, and drawing her fearful, only half-willing in a close embrace. “But I must be honest with you. This is my conviction, the sanctity and freedom of love.”
“It sounds well, but it feels dangerous,” she whispered.
“Don’t you believe in me, Helen?” in an offended tone.
“I do, oh, I do; but not in your conviction,” she moaned.
“What difference does it make, my heart? We love. We have chosen each other,” he laughed.
“Forever?” she wanted to know.
“Forever!” he repeated with emphasis.
She leaned close to his side, her head upon his breast, her eyes closed, lips parted, white teeth gleaming. He knew for certain that nothing could separate him from this goodness, this sweetness, this loveliness. He merely wished to be on the level, to conceal nothing from her that concerned them so nearly. He kissed her rapturously.