“No,” laughed Brassid.
“Then let us go on and on and on forever! Brassid, I am mad to-day. That about the Indian-fighter did it. And if you knew how close—close—you are—why—come! Out there where it sparkles! It fascinates—calls to me. Oh, dear Brassid, perhaps my ancestors did wear scales! Come! Out there ask for—anything!”
She gave him, there in the water, his first caress—only a touch, after all.
Brassid’s tongue was loosed. He talked on almost in strophes.
And she answered presently:
“Brassid dear, that sounds like the big love. I wouldn’t have any other—if I had to have it at all. I wish I did love you. Oh, not so much for your sake as mine! I begin to feel, to see, to hear, what it is. Brassid, some day I shall demand it.”
“And you shall have it.”
“But not—now—Brassid dear! Not—to-day! Please!”
“Look here,” said he, in his ferocity, “you do love me—and you are going to marry me!”
“No, no, no! Brassid, really, I don’t love you. Not a bit—yet. It is courage—courage. But out here—to-day—Brassid, I like you—courage or no courage, I’ll confess that much—I like you a lot.” Then, presently, “Brassid, do you really think I love you?”