"Hear what?"
"Why, of love, I mean."
"But why, why?" the narrow brows lifted in faint distress, "I am going to be ever so happy."
"Ah, yes, I know, I know. But why can't you be happy alone?"
She looked at me, and a faint red dusked the delicate cheek. "Not so happy. Not me, I mean."
"You do love him, then?" the words jerked out.
"Why, you strange thing, how curiously you speak to me. Of course I love him. I am going to marry him."
"But how do you know?" I persisted. "Does it mean more to you—well—than the secret of everything? I mean, what comes when one is almost nothing? Does it make you more yourself? or just break you in two? or melt you away?—oh, like a mist that is gone, and to every petal and blade of grass its drop of burning water?"
A shade of dismay, almost of fear—the look a timid animal gives when startled—stole into her eyes. "You ask such odd questions! How can I answer them? I know this—I would rather die than not. Is that what you mean?"
"Oh," my voice fainted away—disappointment, darkness, ennui; "only that!"