“Did I abuse you?” she asked.
He smiled too, and took her hand, that was so soft and given.
“Never mind,” she said, “it is all for the good.” He kissed her again, softly, many times.
“Isn’t it?” she said.
“Certainly,” he replied. “Wait! I shall have my own back.”
She laughed suddenly, with a wild catch in her voice, and flung her arms around him.
“You are mine, my love, aren’t you?” she cried straining him close.
“Yes,” he said, softly.
His voice was so soft and final, she went very still, as if under a fate which had taken her. Yes, she acquiesced—but it was accomplished without her acquiescence. He was kissing her quietly, repeatedly, with a soft, still happiness that almost made her heart stop beating.
“My love!” she cried, lifting her face and looking with frightened, gentle wonder of bliss. Was it all real? But his eyes were beautiful and soft and immune from stress or excitement, beautiful and smiling lightly to her, smiling with her. She hid her face on his shoulder, hiding before him, because he could see her so completely. She knew he loved her, and she was afraid, she was in a strange element, a new heaven round about her. She wished he were passionate, because in passion she was at home. But this was so still and frail, as space is more frightening than force.