She laughed softly and leaned toward him, elfin in the pale shimmer of light. “I am Romance,” she breathed, “and this is my night. The night, the moon, and I conspire to make magic.”
He secured a slim hand. The pace was telling. His voice was a little husky.
“Your charms are very potent, moon maid,” he said, “it is magic, isn’t it? It—it doesn’t happen like this—really.”
Their eyes met—clung.
“You—you take my breath,” he stammered. “Does your heart mean what your eyes are saying? Don’t—don’t look at me like that unless you do—mean it.”
She didn’t answer in words. She, too, was breathing quickly.
He released her hand, and sprang up—half turned away. Then he dropped to the arm of her chair. Swiftly he took her face in his two hands. The throbbing of her throat intoxicated him. “I—I—love me,” he stammered.
Her lips moved. A sob more poignant than words. They kissed for a long time.
There were footsteps down the veranda. She drew away. She recognized her mother’s voice and Miss Neilson’s. She was thinking very quickly. Should she send him away or end it now—end it all now?
“You darling—you darling. I—I love you,” he was saying.