"I wish you luck!" she smiled.
"You have said it," he jubilated, "you have said it!" And then, realizing that she had meant it all the time, he threatened her with a look, a shake of the head—oh, you would have said he wanted to punish her in some terrible way, some way that was filled with kisses.
"Jeannette," he whispered, "I have never heard you speak my name."
"A pretty name, too," she said. "I have wondered if I might not spoil it in my pronunciation."
"You beautiful bit of mockery, you," he said, "will you condescend to repeat a little sentence after me? You will say it far more prettily than I, but perhaps you will forgive my lack of music. I am only a man. You—ah, you are a goddess."
"For how long?" she asked. "Men marry goddesses and find them clay, don't they?"
"You are not clay, dear, you are star-dust, and flowers, and fragrance. There is not a thought in your dear head that is in tune with mere clay. But listen! You must say this after me: I—"
"I—"
"Love—"
"Love—"