Jane fixed her eyes on his with something like reproach. "I was happier before," she said; "much happier. I almost wish you had not."
"But I love you," said De Boys.
"Still," said Jane, "I wish you had not. I shall remember it."
"So shall I," said De Boys.
"But I only want to remember that I love you," said Jane; "and I want to remember it without distractions, and without kisses, which, after all, may only mean that I am standing in your way."
"Dearest!"
"Yet I am glad," she went on—"I am glad God made me a woman."
"Why?"
"That you might love me."
Once more a spell was in the air, but this time she had experience.
"Come," she said, quickly, "we shall be late, and the geese will want their supper."
Even thus does prose trample on the skirts of passion. They hurried on into the gathering twilight, on and on. At the hill they joined hands and ran, kicking, in imagination, the world (of their imagination), in front of them as they went.
