Surprised and touched he turned toward her: she flushed and smiled, suddenly realising the naïveté of her avowal.
"It's true," she said. "Every day I seem to become more and more entangled with you. I'm wondering whether I've already crossed the bounds of friendship,
and how far I am outside. I can't seem to realise any longer that there is no bond between us stronger than preference.... I was thinking—very unusual and very curious thoughts—about us both." She drew a deep, unsteady, but smiling, breath: "Clive, I wish you could marry me."
"You wish it, Athalie?" he asked, profoundly moved.
"Yes."
After a silence she leaned over and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
"Ah, yes," she said under her breath,—"that is what I begin to wish for. A home, and you.... And—children."
He put his arm around her.
"Isn't it strange, Clive, that I should think about children—at my age—and with little chance of ever having any. I don't know what possesses me to suddenly want them.... Wouldn't they be wonderful in that house? And they'd have that darling garden to play in.... There ought to be a boy—several in fact, and some girls.... I'd know what to do for them. Isn't it odd that I should know exactly how to bring them up. But I do. I know I do.... I can almost see them playing in the garden—I can see their dear little faces—hear their voices—"
His arm was clasping her slim body very tightly, but she suddenly sat upright, resting one slender hand on his shoulder; and her gaze became steady and fixed.