She stopped—a sudden flush of rose and gleam of white—and dropped by his side again.
“And every night,” she went on, as though there had been no interruption, “we say our creed: ‘I believe in beauty—all the beauty that ever has been and ever will be in the world. And I will worship and serve it with the highest there is in me—always.’”
He could not speak at first. Then finally, unevenly: “I can’t presume to praise your theory of life, Athena—any more than I could your dancing. Thank you for them both.”
She put her hand on his knee, looking at him, whitely, a little wildly.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Dick,” he answered, as simply as she had told him hers.
“I should like to marry you—Dick.”
He stared at her.
“So you include marriage—in your scheme of life?” he said dully.
“Yes. Hellena says our marriage laws are terrible, but, while there is no substitute, if we love terribly it is right to marry. I want to marry you, Dick—to be with you always, and take the tired look away from your eyes.”