But the verandah, deserted at this hour by the consumptives, had attractions for Justine, for Roland as well; and presently, in a corner of it that leaned to the south, both were seated, and, at the moment, both were dumb. On the horizon, vague now and undiscerned, the peach-blossoms and ochres of sunset had long since disappeared; but from above rained down the light and messages of other worlds; the sky was populous with stars that seemed larger and nearer than they do in the north; Venus in particular shone like a neighborly sun that had strayed afar, and in pursuit of her was a moon, a new one, so slender and yellow you would have said, a feather that a breath might blow away. In the air were the same inviting odors, the scent of heliotrope and of violets, the invocations of the woodlands, the whispers of the pines. The musicians had been hushed, or else dismissed, for no sound came from them that night. Roland had not sought the feverish night to squander it in contemplation. His hand moved and caught Justine's. It resisted a little, then lay docile in his own. For she was new to love. Like every other girl that has passed into the twenties, she had a romance in her life, two perhaps, but romances immaterial as children's dreams, and from which she had awaked surprised, noting the rhythm yet seeking the reason in vain. They had passed from her as fancies do; and, just as she was settling down into leisurely acceptance of her cousin, Roland had appeared, and when she saw him a bird within her burst into song, and she knew that all her life she had awaited his approach. To her he was the fabulous prince that arouses the sleeper to the truth, to the meaning, of love. He had brought with him new currents, wider vistas, and horizons solid and real. He differed so from other men that her mind was pleasured with the thought he had descended from a larger sphere. She idealized him as girls untrained in life will do. He was the lover unawaited yet not wholly undivined, tender-hearted, impeccable, magnificent, incapable of wrong--the lover of whom she may never have dreamed, yet who at last had come. And into his keeping she gave her heart, and was glad, regretting only it was not more to give. She had no fears; her confidence was assured as Might, and had you or I or any other logician passed that way and demonstrated as clearly as _a_ = _a_ that she was imbecile in her love, she would not have thanked either of us for our pains. When a woman loves--and whatever the cynic may affirm, civilization has made her monandrous--she differs from man in this: she gives either the first-fruits of her affection, or else the semblance of an after-growth. There are men, there are husbands and lovers even, who will accept that after-growth and regard it as the verdure of an enduring spring. But who, save a lover, is ever as stupid as a husband? Man, on the other hand, is constant never. Civilization has not improved him in the least.