With his eyes he entreated her, for their steed, spying the lights of home, had started forward and Antony's hands were busy.
"Ah, Nette, dearest Nette," he begged her, and something in his voice shook her so that she trembled beside him, "if waking makes you hate me again, then dream! For when you dream, I am sure you love me."
"I do not! I do not!" she cried, covering her face with her hands.
The eager horse tugged at the bit: Antony forced her by his mere will to meet his eyes.
"Not?" he said, low and clearly, "Not? Not after to-day, Nette?"
She bit her lip, and then, as the old college bell rang out nine sharp strokes she laid her arms swiftly about his neck and his cheek quivered under her warm soft hair.
"You are right," she whispered, "after to-day--everything!"
The streets were no longer empty. They sat, separate, with whirling hearts, trembling under the mounting moon. They were in the familiar street. . . .
"After to-day--after to-day!" he muttered dizzily, when 119 suddenly she laughed out beside him, sobbed brokenly, then laughed again.
"To-day is the first of April!" she cried.