"Yes," said Suzanne with a little gasp. She inhaled her breath as she pronounced this word which gave it an airy breathlessness which had a touch of demure pathos in it. "Oh, it is perfect."
"Your hair," he said. "You don't know how nice you look. You fit this scene exactly."
"Don't speak of me," she pleaded. "I look so tousled. The wind in the train blew my hair so I ought to go the ladies' dressing room and hunt up a maid."
"Stay here," said Eugene. "Don't go. It is all so lovely."
"I won't now. I wish we might always sit here. You, just as you are there, and I here."
"Did you ever read the 'Ode on a Grecian Urn'?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember the lines 'Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave'?"
"Yes, yes," she answered ecstatically.
"'Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love and she be fair.'"