Thus for a time they swung together in ethereal space, breathless with the motion of their flight. The duration of such moments is—in words—limitless. Now he held her against him, and again he held her away that his eyes might feast upon hers until she dropped her lashes and the crimson tide flooded into her face and she hid it again in the refuge she had longed for,—murmuring his name. But at last, startled by some sound without and so brought back to earth, she led him gently to the window at the side and looked up at him searchingly. He was tanned no longer.
“I was afraid you had been working too hard,” she said.
“So you do love me?” was Bob's answer to this remark.
Cynthia smiled at him with her eyes: gravely, if such a thing may be said of a smile.
“Bob, how can you ask?”
“Oh, Cynthia,” he cried, “if you knew what I have been through, you wouldn't have held out, I know it. I began to think I should never have you.”
“But you have me now,” she said, and was silent.
“Why do you look like that?” he asked.
She smiled up at him again.
“I, too, have suffered, Bob,” she said. “And I have thought of you night and day.”