They were both in an exalted mood. The wood was very still, its beauty incomparable. And they might already have been on another star.
Across that divine balsam-scented stillness came the deep imperative notes of a bell.
Clavering twitched his shoulders impatiently.
"Let them go on their screaming picnic," he said. "We stay here. Did you mean that, Mary?"
"Yes, I meant it. We will not go to Europe at all—except to visit my Dolomites some day. When you are writing I'll come up here."
"I don't know that I shall ask that sacrifice of you. A part of your brain is asleep now, but it is a very active and insistent part when awake. In time you might revert—and resentment is a fatal canker; but let's leave it open. It is generally a mistake to settle things off-hand. Let them alone and they settle themselves."
"Very well. At all events, while we are here, I shall not give it another thought. The present at least is perfect."
"Yes, it is perfect!" He put both arms about her. The past was a blank to both. Their pulsing lips met in the wonder and the ecstasy of the first kiss of youth, of profound and perfect and imperishable love. They clung together exalted and exulting and for the moment at least they were one.