"No; I was not thinking of you, dear. I know that you'll not be changed; I was thinking that I might be."
He withdrew the arm that was round her, and, raising himself upon his elbow, he looked at her.
"You've told me more about yourself in that single phrase than if you had been talking an hour."
"Dearest Owen, let me kiss you."
It seemed to them wonderful that they should be permitted to kiss each other so eagerly, and it sometimes was a still more intense rapture to lie in each other's arms and talk to each other.
The dawn surprised them still talking, and it seemed to them as if nothing had been said. He was explaining his plans for her life. They were, he thought, going to live abroad for five, six, or seven years. Then Evelyn would go to London, to sing, preceded by an extraordinary reputation. But the first thing to do was to get a house in Paris.
"We cannot stop at this hotel; we must have a house. I have heard of a charming hotel in the Rue Balzac."
"In the Rue Balzac! Is there a street called after him? Is it on account of the name you want me to live there?"
"No; I don't think so, but perhaps the name had something to do with it—one never knows. But I always liked the street."
"Which of his books is it like?"