"She could hardly do otherwise."
"Yet sometimes," says Monica, with hesitation and a downcast face, "I have thought it was all mere fancy with you, and that you don't love me really."
"My sweetheart, what a cruel thing to say to me!"
"But see how you scold me! Only now," nervously plucking little bits of bark from the trunk of the tree, "you accused me of dreadful things. Yes, sometimes I doubt you."
"I wonder where I leave room for doubt? Yet I must convince you. What shall I swear by, then?" he asks, half [laughing]: "the chaste Diana up above—the lovers' friend—is in full glory to-night; shall I swear by her?"
"'Oh, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, lest that thy love prove likewise variable,'" quotes she archly; "and yet," with a sudden change of mood, and a certain sweet gravity, "I do not mistrust you."
She leans slightly towards him, and unasked, gives her hand into his keeping once again. She is full of pretty tender ways and womanly tricks, and as for the best time for displaying them, for this she has a natural talent.
Desmond, clasping her hand, looks at her keenly. His whole heart is in his eyes.
"Tell me that you love me," he says, in a low unsteady voice.
"How can I? I don't know. I am not sure," she says, falteringly; "and," shrinking a little from him, "it is growing very late. See how the moon has risen above the firs. I must go home."