"What-is-the-question?" I still looked downwards. My voice was as husky as his, my heart as hungry.
"You know it."
"What-is-the-question?" repeated obstinately, mechanically, and because—for one-millionth part—I was not sure. I knew the question, my heart had answered it already; but I was a woman, and my mouth could not speak for my heart till the man had achieved his task—found his mouth courage to speak for his heart. I knew, my heart knew; but my brain waited for the serene absolute certainty which his words alone could give. To complete the miracle this word was needed.
"What-is-the-question?" I repeated mechanically.
His heart stopped again for the last effort, the ultimate moment of life. "Will you—once—one time only—before you go abroad again—before I am old—one single time—" (how fondly each poor broken conciliatory qualification seemed to ease his task, break his amorous fall, make easier my way to the answer his soul sought)—"kiss me?"
A spasm of spiritual joy went through me from head to foot. His soul was mine, and mine was his: we were one soul, one double-soul inhabiting each body.
The winter was past, the rain was over and gone.
"Yes," I whispered. My voice was unsure, my eyes were filled with tears of happiness, my heart was fondling the two flawless words with which he had transformed me.
More bravely, easily, surely: "When?"