They had no tenderness for one another. Such tenderness as might have crept into the relationship they collaborated in destroying, choosing to dwell in the strong clean air of mountain-tops, shunning the ease of the valleys. Violence was never very far out of sight. They loved proudly, with a flame that purged all from their love but the essential, the ideal passion. 'I live with a Mænad,' he said, putting out his hand and bathing his fingers in her loosened hair. From the rough shelter of reeds and matting where they idled then among the terraced vineyards, the festoons of the vines and the bright reds and yellows of the splay leaves, brilliant against the sun, framed her consonant grace. The beautiful shadows of lacing vines dappled the ground, and the quick lizards darted upon the rough terrace walls. He said, pursuing his thought,-- 'You have never the wish of other women--permanency? a house with me? never the inkling of such a wish?' 'Trammels!' she replied, 'I've always hated possessions.' He considered her at great length, playing with her hair, fitting his fingers into its waving thicknesses, putting his cheek against the softness of her cheek, and laughing. 'My changeling. My nymph,' he said. She lay silent, her arms folded behind her head, and her eyes on him as he continued to utter his disconnected sentences. 'Where is the Eve of Herakleion? The mask you wore! I dwelt only upon your insignificant vanity, and in your pride you made no defence. Most secret pride! Incredible chastity of mind! Inviolate of soul, to all alike. Inviolate. Most rare restraint! The expansive vulgarity of the crowd! My Eve....' He began again,-- 'So rarely, so stainlessly mine. Beyond mortal hopes. You allowed all to misjudge you, myself included. You smiled, not even wistfully, lest that betray you, and said nothing. You held yourself withdrawn. You perfected your superficial life. That profound humour.... I could not think you shallow--not all your pretence could disguise your mystery--but, may I be forgiven, I have thought you shallow in all but mischief. I prophesied for you'--he laughed--'a great career as a destroyer of men. A great courtesan. But instead I find you a great lover. _Une grande amoureuse._' 'If that is mischievous,' she said, 'my love for you goes beyond mischief; it would stop short of no crime.' He put his face between his hands for a second. 'I believe you; I know it.' 'I understand love in no other way,' she said, sitting up and shaking her hair out of her eyes; 'I am single-hearted. It is selfish love: I would die for you, gladly, without a thought, but I would sacrifice my claim on you to no one and to nothing. It is all-exorbitant. I make enormous demands. I must have you exclusively for myself.' He teased her,-- 'You refuse to marry me.' She was serious.