He looked at her, utterly unable to move his lips.
“How do you wish me to love you?”
He opened his arms; she stepped forward, close to him.
Then their lips met.
“Oh,” she said faintly, “I did not know it—it was so sweet.”
And as her head fell back on his arm about
her neck she looked up at him full of wonder at this new knowledge he had taught her, marvelous, unsuspected, divine in its simplicity. Then the first delicate blush that ever mounted her face spread, tinting throat and forehead; she drew his face down to her own.
The poet paced the dim veranda, arms folded, head bent. But his glance was sideways and full of intelligence as it included two vague figures coming slowly back through the moon-drenched meadow.
“By elimination we arrive at perfection,” he mused; “and perfection is success. There remain six more,” he added irrelevantly, “but they’re young yet. Patience, subtle patience—and attention to the little things.” He pinched a morsel of air out of the darkness, examined it and released it.
“The little things,” he repeated; “that is a very precious thought.... I believe the sea air may agree with me—now and then.”