“What then?” he asked.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
“Too much,” he answered quietly.
She clung a little closer.
“Not too much,” she pleaded.
“Far too much,” he said, almost sadly.
“And does it make you sad, that I am everything to you?” she asked, wistful. He held her close to him, kissing her, and saying, scarcely audible:
“No, but I feel like a beggar—I feel poor.”
She was silent, looking at the stars now. Then she kissed him.
“Don’t be a beggar,” she pleaded, wistfully. “It isn’t ignominious that you love me.”