He did it slowly. Each hand was like a flower unsheathed, and when he had kissed her fingers and her palms he looked up and saw a face made tragic by sudden knowledge of passion. Her eyes were dark with it and her mouth had shaped itself for his.
"Helen—!"
"I know—I know—"
"And there's nothing to say."
"It doesn't matter—doesn't matter—" His head was on her knees and her hands stroked his hair. He heard her whispering: "What soft hair! It's like a baby's." She laughed. "So soft! No, no. Stay there. I want to stroke it."
"But I want to see you. I haven't seen you since I kissed you. And you're more beautiful. I love you more—" He rose, and would not see the persuasion of her arms. "Ah, dear, dearest one, forget I love you. You are too young and too beautiful for me, Desire."
"But I shall soon be old. You don't want to wait until I'm old."
"I don't want to wait at all."
"And I'm twenty, Zebedee."
"Twenty! Well, Heaven bless you for it," he said and swung the hand she held out to him.