"Yes. I think—I think I knew you would come, Peter," she answered unsteadily.
The moonlight fell full upon her—upon a white, strained face with passionate, unkissed lips, and eyes that looked bravely into his, refusing to shirk the ultimate significance which underlay his question.
With a stifled exclamation he swept her up into his arms and his mouth met hers in the first kiss that had ever passed between them—a kiss which held infinite tenderness, and the fierce passion that is part of love, and a foreshadowing of the pain of separation.
"My beloved!" He held her a little away from him so that he might look into her face. Then with a swift, passionate eagerness; "Say that you love me, Nan?"
"Why, Peter—Peter, you know it," she cried tremulously. "It doesn't need telling, dear. . . . Only—it's forbidden."
"Yes," he assented gravely. "It's forbidden us. But now—just this once—let us have a few moments, you and I alone, when there's no need to pretend we don't care—when we can be ourselves!"
"No—no—" she broke in breathlessly.
"It's not much, to ask—five minutes together out of the whole of life! Roger can't grudge them. He'll have you—always." His arms closed jealously round her.
"Yes—always," she repeated. With a sudden choked cry she clung to him despairingly.
"Peter, sometimes I feel I can't bear it! Oh, why were we allowed to care like this?"