The intimacy established between us, her complete willing sacrifice to me, her surrender, her trust in me, the knowledge of herself and her beauty she had allowed me gave birth suddenly in my heart to a great overwhelming tenderness and a necessity for its expression.
I bent over her, pressed my lips down on hers and held them there. She did not open her eyes, but raised her arms and put them round my neck, pressing me to her. In a joyous wave of emotion I threw myself beside her and drew the slender, supple figure into my arms.
"Trevor," she murmured, as soon as I would let her, "I am afraid you are falling in love with me."
"I have already," I answered. "I love you, I want for my own. You must marry me, and come and live at the studio."
"I don't think I can marry you," she replied in very soft tones, but she did not try to move from my clasp.
"Why not?"
"Artists should not marry: it prevents their development. How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight," I answered, half-submerged in the delight of the contact with her, of knowing her in my arms, hardly willing or able to listen to what she said.
"And how many women have you loved?"
"Oh, I don't know," I answered. "I have been with lots, of course, but
I don't think I have ever loved at all till now."