"Janey, how dare you!—'loved you'! What do you mean?"
"Oh, please promise!"
She was crying. He had never seen her like this. Hitherto at their meetings she had left the stress and earthquake of love to him, fronting it with a sweet, half-timid calm. Now she clung to him, twisted and trembled.
"Promise, Quentin."
"Well, since you're such a silly little thing, I will. Listen. 'I promise never to forget how much I loved you.' There, you darling fool."
"Thank you ..." she said weakly.
He drew her close, kissed her, and laughed at her.
"Janey—you're the spring, with its doubts and distresses. You were the autumn when autumn was here, all tanned and flushed and rumpled, with September in your eyes. Now you're the spring, thin, soft, aloof and wondering—you're sunshine behind a cloud—you're the promise of August and heavy apple-boughs."
"And you'll never forget how much you loved me...."