“I don’t believe you know either.  What was the last sonnet about?”

“I don’t know,” she laughed frankly.  “I’ve already forgotten.  Don’t let us read any more.  The day is too beautiful.”

“It will be our last in the hills for some time,” he announced gravely.  “There’s a storm gathering out there on the sea-rim.”

The book slipped from his hands to the ground, and they sat idly and silently, gazing out over the dreamy bay with eyes that dreamed and did not see.  Ruth glanced sidewise at his neck.  She did not lean toward him.  She was drawn by some force outside of herself and stronger than gravitation, strong as destiny.  It was only an inch to lean, and it was accomplished without volition on her part.  Her shoulder touched his as lightly as a butterfly touches a flower, and just as lightly was the counter-pressure.  She felt his shoulder press hers, and a tremor run through him.  Then was the time for her to draw back.  But she had become an automaton.  Her actions had passed beyond the control of her will—­she never thought of control or will in the delicious madness that was upon her.  His arm began to steal behind her and around her.  She waited its slow progress in a torment of delight.  She waited, she knew not for what, panting, with dry, burning lips, a leaping pulse, and a fever of expectancy in all her blood.  The girdling arm lifted higher and drew her toward him, drew her slowly and caressingly.  She could wait no longer.  With a tired sigh, and with an impulsive movement all her own, unpremeditated, spasmodic, she rested her head upon his breast.  His head bent over swiftly, and, as his lips approached, hers flew to meet them.

This must be love, she thought, in the one rational moment that was vouchsafed her.  If it was not love, it was too shameful.  It could be nothing else than love.  She loved the man whose arms were around her and whose lips were pressed to hers.  She pressed more, tightly to him, with a snuggling movement of her body.  And a moment later, tearing herself half out of his embrace, suddenly and exultantly she reached up and placed both hands upon Martin Eden’s sunburnt neck.  So exquisite was the pang of love and desire fulfilled that she uttered a low moan, relaxed her hands, and lay half-swooning in his arms.

Not a word had been spoken, and not a word was spoken for a long time.  Twice he bent and kissed her, and each time her lips met his shyly and her body made its happy, nestling movement.  She clung to him, unable to release herself, and he sat, half supporting her in his arms, as he gazed with unseeing eyes at the blur of the great city across the bay.  For once there were no visions in his brain.  Only colors and lights and glows pulsed there, warm as the day and warm as his love.  He bent over her.  She was speaking.

“When did you love me?” she whispered.

“From the first, the very first, the first moment I laid eye on you.  I was mad for love of you then, and in all the time that has passed since then I have only grown the madder.  I am maddest, now, dear.  I am almost a lunatic, my head is so turned with joy.”