“I feel that, but I dont want to be. I want to be near you. Perhaps I will be if I tell you something. Paul, I love you.”
The sea casts up its jewel into his hands, and burns them furiously. To tuck her arm under his and hold her hand will ease the burn.
“What can I say to you, brave dear woman—I cant talk love. Love is a dry grain in my mouth unless it is wet with kisses.”
“You would dare? right here on the Boulevard? before Arthur and Helen?”
“Before myself? I dare.”
“Here then.”
Bona, in the slim shadow of a tree trunk, pulls Paul to her. Suddenly she stiffens. Stops.
“But you have not said you love me.”
“I cant—yet—Bona.”
“Ach, you never will. Youre cold. Cold.”