"Oh, you musn't ask so soon," she replied. "I want to talk to you first. I'll play you something." "No," he said, following her as she backed toward the piano. "I want to know. I must. I can't wait." "I haven't made up my mind," she pleaded evasively. "I want to think. You had better let me play." "Oh, no," he urged. "Yes, let me play." She ignored him and swept into the composition, but all the while she was conscious of him hovering over her--a force. At the close, when she had been made even more emotionally responsive by the suggestion of the music, he slipped his arms about her as he had once before, but she struggled away again, slipping to a corner and standing at bay. He liked her flushed face, her shaken hair, the roses awry at her waist. "You must tell me now," he said, standing before her. "Will you have me?" She dropped her head down as though doubting, and fearing familiarities; he slipped to one knee to see her eyes. Then, looking up, he caught her about the waist. "Will you?" he asked. She looked at his soft hair, dark and thick, his smooth pale brow, his black eyes and even chin. She wanted to yield dramatically and this was dramatic enough. She put her hands to his head, bent over and looked into his eyes; her hair fell forward about her face. "Will you be good to me?" she asked, yearning into his eyes. "Yes, yes," he declared. "You know that. Oh, I love you so." She put his head far back and laid her lips to his. There was fire, agony in it. She held him so and then he stood up heaping kisses upon her cheeks, her lips, her eyes, her neck. "Good God!" he exclaimed, "how wonderful you are!" The expression shocked her. "You mustn't," she said. "I can't help it. You are so beautiful!" She forgave him for the compliment. There were burning moments after this, moments in which they clung to each other desperately, moments in which he took her in his arms, moments in which he whispered his dreams of the future. He took the ring he had bought and put it on her finger. He was going to be a great artist, she was going to be an artist's bride; he was going to paint her lovely face, her hair, her form. If he wanted love scenes he would paint these which they were now living together. They talked until one in the morning and then she begged him to go, but he would not. At two he left, only to come early the next morning to take her to church.