“For what light a candle, dear Pierre?—Sit close to me, my brother.”
He moved nearer to her, and stole one arm around her; her sweet head leaned against his breast; each felt the other’s throbbing.
“Oh, my dear Pierre, why should we always be longing for peace, and then be impatient of peace when it comes? Tell me, my brother! Not two hours ago, thou wert wishing for twilight, and now thou wantest a candle to hurry the twilight’s last lingering away.”
But Pierre did not seem to hear her; his arm embraced her tighter; his whole frame was invisibly trembling. Then suddenly in a low tone of wonderful intensity he breathed:
“Isabel! Isabel!”
She caught one arm around him, as his was around herself; the tremor ran from him to her; both sat dumb.
He rose, and paced the room.
“Well, Pierre; thou camest in here to arrange thy matters, thou saidst. Now what hast thou done? Come, we will light a candle now.”
The candle was lighted, and their talk went on.
“How about the papers, my brother? Dost thou find every thing right? Hast thou decided upon what to publish first, while thou art writing the new thing thou didst hint of?”