Like so many other men of my age, I had vainly believed myself to be a philosopher. Yet are not philosophers merely soured cynics, after all? And I certainly was neither cynical nor soured. Therefore my philosophy was but a mere ridiculous affectation to which so many men and women are prone.
But in those moments of ecstasy I abandoned myself entirely to love, imprinting lingering, passionate kisses upon her lips, her closed eyes, her wide white brow, while she returned my caresses, smiling through her hot tears.
Presently, when she grew calmer, she said in a low, sweet voice—
“I—hardly know whether this is wise. I somehow fear——”
“Fear what?” I asked, interrupting her.
“I fear what the future may hold for us,” she answered. “Remember I—I am poor, while you are wealthy, and——”
“What does that matter, pray? Thank Heaven! I have sufficient for us both—sufficient to provide for you the ordinary comforts of life, Sylvia. I only now long for the day, dearest, when I may call you wife.”
“Ah!” she said, with a wistful smile, “and I, too, shall be content when I can call you husband.”
And so we sat together upon the couch, holding each other’s hand, and speaking for the first time not as friends—but as lovers.
You who love, or who have loved, know well the joyful, careless feeling of such moments; the great peace which overspreads the mind when the passion of affection burns within.