"Would you laugh, Carus, if I said it: what you did to me—is the first—the very first in all my life?"
"Oh, no," I said gravely, "I should not laugh if you commanded otherwise."
She looked at me in silence, the light from the chaise-lamps playing over her flushed face. Presently she turned and surveyed the darkness where, row on row, ruins of burned houses stood, the stars shining down through roofless walls.
Into my head came ringing the song that Walter Butler sang:
"Ninon! Ninon! thy sweet life flies!
Wasted in hours day follows day.
The rose to-night to-morrow dies:
Wilt thou disdain to love alway?
How canst thou live unconscious of Love's fire,
Immune to passion, guiltless of desire?"