The sun streamed in at the window, kissing the tendrils of her hair and bringing to their copper shimmer a yet brighter blush. The day, with all its perfume, the splendor of its people, the riot of color of its gowns, the pride and pomp of its statues and its fountains, flushed the most secret rills of life.
"It is a marvel of a day," said Jeannette.
"A marvel? It is an impossible day; it is not a day at all—it is merely the hour of hours, the supreme instant, the melody so sweet that it must break or blind our hearts. You are right, dear, it is a marvelous hour. You make me repeat myself. Can we let this hour—escape, Jeannette?"
"It goes fast."
"Fast—fast as the wind. Fleet as air and fair as heaven are the instants that bring happiness to common mortals. But we must hold the hour, cage it, leash it to our lives."
"Do you think we can?"
She had used the "we!" Oh yes, and she had said it; she had said it; he sang the refrain over to himself in a swoon of bliss.
"I am sure of it," he urged. "Will you try?"
"You are so much the stronger," she mocked.
"Oh—if it depends on me—! Try? I shall succeed! I know it. Such love as mine cannot fail. If only you will let me try. That is all; just that.