‘But will you never think ill of me?’
She whispered the words, close-clinging.
‘I should be a contemptible sort of brute.’
‘No. I ought to have—. If we had spoken of our love to each other, and waited.’
‘A very proper twelvemonth’s engagement,—meetings at five o’clock tea,—fifty thousand love-letters,—and all that kind of thing. Oh, we chose a better way. Our wedding was among the leaves and flowers. You remember the glow of evening sunlight between the red pine and the silver birch? I hope that place may remain as it is all our lives; we will go there—’
‘Never! Never ask me to go there. I want to forget—I hope some day I may forget.’
‘If you hope so, then I will hope the same.’
‘And you love me—with real, husband’s love—love that will last?’
‘Why should I answer all the questions?’ He took her face between his hands. What if the wife’s love should fail first?’
‘You can say that lightly, because you know—’