"But you know that isn't so."
"Come, dearest, be reasonable. You're not going to stop here all your life playing the viola da gamba. The hour of departure has come," he said, perceiving her very thought; "be reasonable, come and see me to-morrow. Come to lunch, and I'll arrange. You know that you—"
"Yes, I believe that," she said, in response to a change which had come into her appreciation. "But can I trust myself? Suppose I did go away, and repented and left you. Where should I go? I could not come back here. Father would forgive me, I daresay, but I could not come back here."
"'Repented,' Those are fairy tales," he said lifting her gold hair from her ear and kissing it. "A woman does not leave the man who adores her."
"You told me they often did."
"How funny you are.... They do sometimes, but not because they repent."
Her head was on his shoulder, and she stood looking at him a long while without speaking.
"Then you do love me, dearest? Tell me so again."
Kissing her gently on the mouth and eyes, he answered—
"You know very well that I do. Come and see me to-morrow. Say you will, for I must go now."