I'll cherish it always. And look here"—his face reddened "There's Fawnie, too. Only so different. I wish I could explain. But I was thinking once about a flower—a sort of lily thing that comes up in the stream in August, by the bridge there. Its roots are in the mud, its stalk and leaves in the dark water, but its flower opens in the pure air, and turns to the sun and breeze. Well, that's like my love for you. It's the flower of me. The bloom. All that's best in me rushes up to it, and still my roots are in the soil and my stalk and leaves in the dark. What a comparison!" He laughed with a tremor in his voice.
"I understand, and it makes me very happy," said Grace, and her eyes met his with a look of ardent resignation.
Reckless, passionate words came rushing to his lips. He thought: "For heaven's sake, exert some self-control now . . . . show that strength of character you're always howling about. Don't kiss her!" And, even as he was thinking, he put his arms about her, and held her to his breast. So they kissed hopelessly, longingly, and yet with joy under the compassionate splendour of the sky.
Afterward they stood quietly, two lonely figures, her head resting on his shoulder, his lips against the bright, winglike sweep of her hair, and she said, half-laughing, half-crying, "Oh, you poor darling, you need me so!"
"If only I could have you for my very own," he cried. "If only I could!"
