"No, not yet. I've much to say and only this hour to say it in, for in a while you shall go and I will stay with Pan and mourn. The woods will sigh of you, for you will be a nymph no longer. But before you go you shall look love in the eyes and see—love full grown and masterful—here among the everlasting rocks—love so great that you shall be afraid and mock not. Look up. Look in my eyes—"
"No! No!"
"You love me."
"No!"
"You love me."
"N—no!"
As she protested he took her lips, pale lips that would have mocked again, yet dared not, for her eyes had stolen a glance through half-closed lashes and learned that what he said was true. The warm color flooded upward, staining crimson beneath the tan, and her body which had relaxed for a moment under the gust of his ardor protested anew.
"Let me go, Philidor. I-It must not be—can't you understand? Would you justify them—what they say of us? Oh, let me go. Let me—"
She wrenched away from him and stood gasping, Olga Tcherny's last laughter singing in her ears.
"You've justified her—justified her," she almost sobbed, "robbed me of my right to look her in the eyes—as I could do this morning. Why did you kiss me—like that—Philidor? Oh, you've spoiled it all—spoiled it for us both. Why couldn't you have let things be—as they were—so gentle—so sweet—so sane!"