He drew her nearer to him by the hand he held, and, putting his arm under her neck, bent her head back on the moss. Her stretched throat was marked by two encircling lines; he traced them with his finger. She lay and smiled at him. But her eyes remained shaded: they were meditative, and seemed to be considering him, a little deliberately.
"Tell me, Louise," he said suddenly; "why do you look at me like that? It's not the first time—I've seen it before. And then, I can't help thinking there's some mistake—that after all you don't really care for me. It is so—so critical."
"You are curious to-day, Maurice."
"Yes. There's so much I want to know, and you tell me nothing. It is I who talk and talk—till you must be tired of hearing me."
"No, I like to listen best. And I have nothing to say."
"Nothing? Really nothing?"
"Only that I'm glad to be here—that I am happy."
He kissed her on the throat, the eyes and the lips; kissed her, until, under his touch, that vague, elusive influence began to emanate from her, which, he was aware, might some day overpower him, and drag him down. They were quite alone, shut in by high trees; no one would find them, or disturb them. And it was just this mysterious power in her that his nerves had dreamed of waking: yet now, some inexplicable instinct made him hesitate, and forbear. He drew his arm from under her head, and rose to his feet, where he stood looking down at her. She lay just as he had left her, and he felt unaccountably impatient.
"There it is again!" he cried. "You are looking at me just as you did before."
Louise passed her hand over her eyes, and sat up. "Why, Maurice, what do you mean? It was nothing—only something I was trying to understand."