“I did not know better,” she said, faintly.
“But it is only a little while since.”
“A month,” she said; “since you returned.”
“Confess to me,” he said, his eyes gleaming, “that it was I who made you know the meaning of love, and I will tell you why you are not going to America to-morrow—no, nor the day after, nor until you shall go with me.”
“What can I confess?” she said, tremulously. “I do not know what you wish, dear Koma.” She was trembling now.
“Confess to me,” he said, “else I cannot speak, for fear I should wrong you, my little one. I will not try to urge you to stay here—with me—unless—”
“I—I cannot speak,” she said. “I know not what to say.”
“Then I will speak,” he said. “I love you, I love you, Hyacinth; with all the life that throbs within me, I love you. Do you understand? No, do not speak unless you can answer my heart with your own. I want you for my own. Ah, I know I have won you! It is not a delusion, for I see it in your eyes, your lips. You do not know it yet, you are so innocent and pure, but I—ah, I am sure of it!”
She raised her quivering face to his in the moonlight. Then suddenly her head fell upon her clasped hands.
“Ah, is this—love?” she said.