“Feel more so?” he stammered.
“Yes, I experience more delight in what you say. Do you think I am insensible to the way you look at me?”
“You—you mean—” He simply could not find words.
She leaned back, watching him with sweet composure; then laughed a little and said: “Do you suppose that you and I are going to fall in love with one another?”
In the purpling dusk the perfume of wistaria grew sweeter and sweeter.
“I’ve done it already—” His voice shook and failed; a thrush, invisible in shadowy depths, made soft, low sounds.
“You love me—already?” she exclaimed under her breath.
“Love you! I—I—there are no words—” The thrush stirred the sprayed foliage and called once, then again, restless for the moon.
Her eyes wandered over him thoughtfully: “So that is love.... I didn’t know.... I supposed it could be nothing pleasanter than friendship, although they say it is.... But how could it be? There is nothing pleasanter than friendship.... I am perfectly delighted that you love me. Shall we marry some day, do you think?”
He strove to speak, but her frankness stunned him.