Cosimo tried again. "I--I don't mean that exactly," he stammered. "That's splendid, that part in the _Crown of Wild Olive_, I know, but--but--I mean something else, Amory--dear----" His hand had slipped from the back of the bench; softly it lay on Amory's shoulder. He could hardly believe that it had lain there many times before, it lay so differently softly now. And yet Amory did not seem to recognize the difference in the softness, nor did she appear conscious that he had called her "dear" in a tone he had never used before. She put her finger-tips lightly on his knee. "Wait a bit," she said. "I have it on the tip of my tongue--it's not the _Crown of Wild Olive_; it's _Sesame and Lilies_--you know--that passage about gossiping with housemaids and stableboys when you might be conversing with kings and queens--I shall remember it in a moment----" For one fleeting instant it did strike Cosimo that if he had not taken down Amory's hair for her and called her "dear" in the past he might have had more resources at his disposal now--at any rate in the sense that Amory would have apprehended him more quickly; and yet that, too, had its little furtive compensation. His hand could remain where it was.... Amory continued to try to recollect the passage from _Sesame and Lilies_. But suddenly she too gave, not a common "Ow!" but a quite sudden start into perception. She moved a little, but the hand on her shoulder did not. With quiet firmness she put her own hand upon it, but her slight effort to draw it away met with resistance. She had seen. She made as if to rise. "Isn't it getting late?" she said, looking away over the river. "Amory--don't go--you know what I mean----" Cosimo pleaded throatily. "It's--it's what I said the other day--you know----" "Let's be going, Cosimo," said Amory. "I really don't know what you mean by the other day." "After you'd seen Dorothy--and I wanted you to marry me--do marry me, dear----" Somehow his hold of her suddenly loosened, and Amory was on her feet. From the bench twenty yards away two faces watched them through the gloom. Amory looked sorrowfully at Cosimo. She was not angry. She did not pretend that she did not understand. "Cosimo," she said, and her voice was low, "I don't see how you can expect things to be the same after this." Cosimo sat helplessly, as if still to sit might be construed as an invitation for her also to resume her place. "I--I don't want them to be the same, dear----" he begged almost abjectly. "And you mustn't call me dear--not in this new way," Amory commanded, softly, but with decision. "I do see what you mean--now. And I admit it makes matters clearer--too clear, perhaps. In that way our friendship may have been a disadvantage. It's committed us to a certain course, and we must either keep to that course or else undo things. I think you'll admit that's a Law. I----" "Oh, undo them!" Cosimo cried ardently, catching, as he sat, at her hands.