When she came down he was waiting. He came towards her. She loved him, he loved her; was there anything in the world she needed now?
He put his arms round her.
“You have forgiven me?” he said, and he kissed her.
“Paul, you won’t hate me?”
“Probably I shall. Tell me why?”
“Well, you know I do not like—much kissing.”
“I have observed that with regret, or rather I hear you say it with sorrow; for since I came I have kissed you several times and you—”
“Yes,” she interrupted, “but do you not think we had better be careful? It might get—common, we might grow accustomed to it, and not—like it as much.”
Paul laughed.
“Oh, Launa!”