“I love you,” he responded, and she sighed softly, closing her eyes, and was silent. So still was she that he might have fancied her asleep but for the pressure of her fingers upon his own. After a time she spoke again: “It is well—ver’ well—to love.” “Yes.... But—you are not afraid. Do you remember the last time you were here you cried? You were afraid.” “I have not fear—no. Then I cried because I was not certain.... I was making up my mind. I have made up my mind, and so I have no fear.... Oh, I was ver’ _solitaire_.... But we mus’ not theenk of that now—only of ourselves. Is it not?... And be happy. We must be ver’ happy—every little second we must be happy ... while it lasts.” “While it lasts? What do you mean?” “Nothing. We mus’ speak of that—not at all. We mus’ speak only of love and happiness—and of how sweet is the world and to be alive—together.” “It _is_ sweet,” he said, unevenly, moved as he had never been moved before. “You are sweet ... and _good_.” Doubt, self-accusations, uneasiness, inhibitions, were swept from him by a flood of tenderness. The world was right; Andree was right; love was right. Nothing mattered but Andree and himself. It was their universe, of which they were masters, with none to forbid. Happiness was their right; it might not be denied them. The future was the future, but to-night was to-night, and little moments of happiness were the gift of Heaven.... “You love me?” he demanded. “I am here,” she said, simply. His arms were about her, her lips were upon his lips; he knew his own moment of happiness. “You are here ...” he whispered. “You are here....” CHAPTER XIII