His face changed a little. The tender mockery passed, and an expression that was oddly out of place there succeeded it. "Ah, you shouldn't tell me that, sweetheart," he said, and his voice was low and held a touch of pain. "I might be tempted to take too much—more than I have any right to take."
"You have a right to all," she said.
But he shook his head. "No—no! You are too young."
"Too young to love?" she said, with quick scorn.
His arm was close about her. "No," he answered soberly. "Only so young that you may—possibly—make the mistake of loving too well."
"What do you mean?" Her voice had a startled note; she pressed nearer to him.
He lifted a hand and pointed to the silver pathway on the sea. "I mean that love is just moonshine—just moonshine; the dream of a night that passes."
"Not in a night!" she cried, and there was anguish in the words.
He bent again swiftly and kissed her lips. "No, not in a night, sweetheart. Not even in two. But at last—at last—tout passe!"
"Then it isn't love!" she said with conviction.