She raised her face to him half imploringly.
“Oh, Philip, is it all that to you?” she asked. “I—I am afraid.”
“Because you have made me the happiest man alive?”
A sudden, inevitable impulse of honesty prompted Madge to speak out.
“No, but because I have perhaps meddled with great forces about which I know nothing. I like you immensely; I have never liked anyone so much. I esteem you and respect you. I am quite willing to lead the rest of my life with you; I want nothing different. But will that do? Is that enough? I have never loved as I believe you love me. I do not think it is possible to me. There, I have told you.”
Philip raised her hands to his lips and kissed them.
“Ah, my dearest, you give me all you have and are, and yet you say, ‘Is that enough?’” he whispered. “What more is possible?”
She looked at him a moment, the trouble not yet quite gone from her face. Then she raised it to his.
“Then take it,” she said.
The night was very warm and windless, and for some time longer they walked up and down, or stood resting against the terrace wall looking down over the hushed woods. A nightingale, the same perhaps that had been charmed to Tom’s finger two evenings ago, poured out liquid melody, and the moon began to rise in the East. Gradually their talk veered to other subjects, and Madge mentioned that Evelyn was willing to do her portrait.