As they gazed at each other the moon glided discreetly behind a cloud, and a soft darkness obscured all things, out of which came the music of the fountain; a symphony of kisses falling with melodic rhythm upon the face of Aphrodite. In a clump of syringa beyond the Italian garden a nightingale trilled.
He knew that he had only to speak the word, to hold out his arms, and she would come to him. She was smiling, but with a sadness which underlay joy: such sadness as may be seen sometimes in the face of a child, who, coming into possession of a long-desired object, is confronted with the possibility of losing it.
He took her hand, gripping it.
"Mark—what is the matter?"
Her voice rose in a crescendo of distress, as Mark staggered, gasping for breath. Terror-stricken, she supported him to a stone bench hard by, upon which he sank.
"It is a p-p-passing weakness," he stammered. "I am better already."
"You have been overworking yourself in those detestable slums," she said vehemently.
"That is the truth," he answered. "I shall take a holiday."
"A long holiday," she whispered, meeting his eyes. But he saw the face of the tall thin doctor and his lean hand raised in protest. "And you must have someone, some dear friend, to look after you."
Her fingers pressed his arm.