Her shoulder brushed mine, as we leaned side by side on the railing. There was sheer intoxication in that contact. I raised my arm, fairly holding my breath, and put it about her shoulders. I caught her two hands, there by her chin. I saw lights, trees, sky in a swirl of happy things. A voice was thrilling in my heart. I gripped her tightly, and tried to kiss her. But she struggled. She tried to push me away. She fought me.
And then, as I staggered back, the tears came from my own eyes, blinding me.
She ran back into my room, and stood there.
I followed. “It was in my heart to do it!” I was saying, like a fool. “It was in my heart to do it!”
She dropped on a chair, very limp and white. She motioned me to take another.
“You must not be like the others,” she was saying, in a desperate, choking voice—“you must not! I can't bear it!”
I could not think. “I am not,” I replied, low—“I am not. I love you. You shall see.”
This was getting us nowhere. Her eyes were dry now, and oh, so sad and tired. She was slowly shaking her head at me.
“You are killing—everything!” she said. But she said it gently.
I could not speak, I only looked at her—looked and looked. Then I went over to the phonograph and worked aimlessly over it. I think I wound it up.