"It's rather narrow..." she suggested; then blushed as McTaggart, unabashed, took the step below.
He looked up into the beautiful face, still faintly flushed, transparent as a shell: into brown eyes like some clear woodland pool, where the sunshine through the trees cast golden gleams. His hand stole across and captured the girl's with the pretence of playing with her fan.
"Cydonia...!" The word was music in his ears. "How the name suits you—you lovely child!"
She drew back a little against the further wall.
"No—don't move—Cydonia—are you happy?" He slipped his right arm between her shoulders and the stairs. "There's a cushion for you—isn't that better?"
But Cydonia protested, sitting bolt upright. "No—Peter—don't. I'd really ... rather ... not."
"Why?—there's no one here. Can't you trust me, sweet?"
For McTaggart was drifting on the tide of his desire. He knew, too, it was part of his own fixed plan; no mere folly due to the place and hour.
Fantine's treachery had served to accentuate, by contrast, the value of his other love. Her girlhood, her purity, her quiescent charm stood out like snow against that dark background.
This night should decide it. No more would he stand, tossed by every impulse, with every change of mood. He would anchor in the haven of Cydonia's love, safe from the storms of life without.