He was so near now that he heard her breathing, saw her face, as
pale as ever. Her lips were a little parted, her eyes looked
out, as it seemed to him, half in fear, half in hope. He bent
lower still. She neither shrank away nor invited him.
"Dear!" he whispered.
Her arms stole from underneath the cloak, her fingers rested upon
his shoulders. He scarcely knew whether it was a caress or
whether she were holding him from her. In any case it was too
late. With a little sob of passion his lips were pressed to
hers. Even as she closed her eyes, the scent of the lilies
seemed to intoxicate him.
He was back in his place without conscious movement. His pulses
were quivering, the passion singing in his blood, the joy of her
faint caress living proudly in his memory. It had been the
moment of his life, and yet even now he felt sick at heart with
fears, with the torment of her passiveness. She had lain there
in his arms, he had felt the thrill of her body, some quaint
inspiration had told him that she had sought for joy in that
moment and had not wholly failed. Yet his anxiety was
tumultuous, overwhelming. Then she spoke, and his heart leaped
again. Her voice was more natural. It was not a voice which he
had ever heard before.
"Give me a cigarette, please--and I want to go back.
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