“’Lisbeth—I can’t— You’d better go— I won’t answer for myself if you—”

“I don’t want—to go.”

Almost roughly he pushed her from him, and held her so, at arm’s length.

“Elizabeth, what are you saying? I’m—I can’t bear much more. What is it that you want?”

So she would have to say it after all; it was a tiresome thing, his honour.

“I—want—you,” she whispered.

The hands fell from her shoulders; Stephen made her look full into his eyes.

“Do you know what you’ve said?” he asked, unnaturally calm. “Do you—mean it—or is it just—”

Her eyes were dark, and bright with tears; she put up her little hands and grasped his shirt. Almost she shook him.

“Oh, can’t you see, can’t you see?” she cried, quivering. “Haven’t I—shown you, my dear? I w-want you so much that it’s tearing me in two! I want you! Won’t you —take me?”

His arms were tight about her at last, crushing her against himself, his lips were on her hair, for her face was hidden again. She clung to him, laughing and crying, and heard his voice above her, broken and strange.

“Oh, my darling, my darling, my darling!”

Her hands went up to his neck; she turned her face upward, and he saw her lips expectant.

“I want—another honeymoon,” she said softly. “I— love—you.” She pulled his head down, and his kisses fell on her eager lips.