"Do you remember when we were here before?"
"Yes."
"I loved you then. Did you care for me?"
"No."
They walked on under the trees, he holding her hand.
"Oh, this night, this night," he said, the strain of his intense emotion wearying him.
They came out from under the trees at the end of the path. There was a sense of August dryness in the air. It was warm, sensuous. About were the sounds of insects, faint bumblings, cracklings. A tree toad chirped, or a bird cried.
"Come to me, Suzanne," he said at last when they emerged into the full light of the moon at the end of the path and paused. "Come to me." He slipped his arm about her.
"No," she said. "No."
"Look at me, Suzanne," he pleaded; "I want to tell you how much I love you. Oh, I have no words. It seems ridiculous to try to tell you. Tell me that you love me, Suzanne. Tell me now. I am crazy with love of you. Tell me."