"We were children then," said she.
I looked at her. In the shadow of the trees, in the broad drive where we stood, she might have been a ghost from that time when La Vallière was a girl, when La Fontaine was a man, and Monsieur Fouquet held his court at Vaux.
Though of the fashion of the day, her dress had that grace which the wearer alone can give; and, as I looked at her, the forest sighed deeply from its cool, green heart, the boughs tossed, showering lights upon us, and the laughter of the birds followed the wind.
"We were children then," said I, "but we are not children now." I took both her hands, and held her soul to mine for a moment in a kiss that has not ended yet.
* * * * *
Where the beech-glades give place to the tall pines—the fragrant pines, whose song sounds for ever like the sea on a distant strand—we sat down on a bank, which in spring would be mist-blue with violets.
"I have never kissed anyone before. Have you?" she asked.
"No one."
"Never loved anyone?" She rested her hands on my shoulders, and looked into my eyes.
"Never."