He felt the velvet of her lips, her breath, upon his forehead; and made as if to clasp her to him. But she slipped back, straightening an arm to fend him off.
"No," she whispered—"not now—not here. Dear boy, get up! Think—this moonlight—anybody might see—"
"I love you!"
"I know and, dear, I'm glad—so glad! But—you made me ask you!"
"I couldn't help that, Venetia: I was—afraid; I hardly dared to dream—of this. You were—you are—above, beyond—"
Gently her hand sealed his mouth.
"Dear, silly boy! Get up. If you won't, I must."
Releasing her hand, he rose. His emotion shook him violently. At discretion, he dropped back into his chair. He looked about him a little wildly, his glance embracing all the weird fantasy of the night: the cold, inaccessible, glittering vault of stars, the malformed and sardonic moon, the silken bosom of the Sound, the lace and purple velvet draperies of the land. Down on the harbour the banjo and harmonica were ragging to tatters a sentimental ballad of the day. From the house came a burst of laughter—Tankerville exultant in some successful stratagem at cards.
His gaze returned to Venetia. She sat without moving, wrapped in the exquisite mystery of her enigmatic heart, bewitching, bewildering, steadfastly reading him with eyes veiled and inscrutable in liquid shadow.
Muttering—"Preposterous!"—he dropped his head between his hands. "I'm mad—mad!" he groaned.