"It is the place of the Sleeping Beauty, sweet! It is the place of love." Blake took her hands again and kissed them; then, with a gentle, enveloping tenderness, he drew her to him, looking into her face, but not attempting to touch it.
"My sweet, I have come back. What are you going to do with me?"
She did not answer; she lay quite still within his arms, her half-closed eyes lingering on the garden—on the white roses, the clustering mignonette, the hovering yellow butterflies.
"What are you going to do with me?"
She lifted her eyes, dewy with the beauty of the world.
"Wait!" she whispered. "Oh, wait!"
"I have waited."
"Ah, but a little longer!"
"But my love, my dear one—"
She stirred in his embrace; she turned with a swift passion of entreaty, putting her fingers across his mouth.