“A new one, a honeymoon, a honeymoon begun.”
“Gulian! As if it could end!”
In pronouncing the “u” in his name her mouth made the sketch of a kiss.
“You would not wish it to?” he asked.
“When I die, perhaps, and even then only to be continued hereafter. Heaven would not be heaven without you.”
She spoke slowly, with little pauses, in a manner that differed from his own mode of speech, which was quick and forceful.
Verplank turned to the letter that had been addressed to him, and which he still held. Without opening it, he tore it into long, thin strips. It was, he knew from the imprint, a communication of no importance; but, at the moment, the action seemed a reply to her remark. It served to indicate his complete indifference to everything and everyone save her only. Afterward, with a regret that was to be eternal, she wished he had done the same with hers.
Yet, pleased at the time, she smiled.
“Gulian, you do love me, but I wonder do you love me as absolutely as I love you?”