“Not yet! Not yet!”
“But I must go. Good-night!”
“Not yet!”
“But I must go! Good-night! Good-night! I pray you, leave me go ... for truly I must go!”
“You’ll come again?”
“To-morrow.”
“Show me the way into the garden,” he said. She showed him the quickest way in, kissed him, and was gone through the garden; for him the night was darkened, and the stars put out. Her breath was still upon his face, the smell of the flowers in his nostrils; and in his ears was the sound of her voice, calling after him, low and sweet, like a half-awakened song,—or was it but a bird which called, that softly-fluting, lonely note.
And when he was gone the garden to Gabrielle was emptied of delight; but all her soul was singing.
Her lips stung; her cheeks were on fire. Into the house she came, one little slipper upon its little foot, one slipper gone,—what became of that lost little slipper God knows!—and her stockinged foot was damp with the dew which had dripped from the leaves overhead. A flame was in her eyes which is in a maiden’s eyes but once, when love first lays his hands upon her heart. So transfigured was she, she seemed a winged creature. She loved; she was beloved; inarticulate ecstasy! Hands, feet, neck, and face told but one story. Her eyes shone like blazing stars; the roses had returned to her pale lips, the freshness to her wan cheeks.
Margot watched her with narrowed eyes.