“You say that you want me. Oh, my love, my love, do you fancy for a moment that your longing for me is anything to be compared to my longing for you?”
“My beloved, my beloved!”
His arms were about her. His lips were upon hers. She kissed him as he kissed her.
Then she turned her head away so that his kisses fell upon her cheek instead of her mouth. She turned it still farther and they fell upon her neck—it was exquisite in its shape—and lay there like red rose-leaves clinging to a carved marble pillar.
“Wait,” she said. “Wait; let me talk to you.”
She untwined his arms from about her—the tears were still in her eyes as she tried to face him.
“Why should you still have tears?” said he. “If anything stood between us and love, there might be room for tears, but nothing stands between us now. I am yours, you are mine.”
“That is the boast of a man who sees only the beginning of a love; mine are the tears of a woman who sees its end, and knows that it is not far off.”
“How can you say that? The end? the end of love such as ours? Oh, Ella!”
“Oh, listen to me, my love! I am ashamed of the part I have played during the past six months—since we were together on the Arno, and you are ashamed, too.”