He reached for the trembling hands which gave themselves to his touch.  She swayed against him.  Her hands had snatched themselves away now—­only to clasp his neck.  And now her lips had touched his again and again and somehow between kiss and kiss, she was murmuring, “Oh, I love you—­I love you—­I love you.  I love you so much that life without you is a perfect misery.  I love you so much that my work now seems stale and dreary.  I love you so much that I don’t want ever to go away from you.  I want to stay here forever and feel your arms about me, for that is the only way that I shall ever know happiness—­or peace.  I wake in the morning with your name on my lips.  I wander through the day with you.  If I try to read, you come between me and the page.  If I try to play you come between me and the notes.  You are my books.  You are my music—­my—­my—­everything.  I go to bed early at night often so that I can lie in the dusk and think of you.  And oh, the only nights that rest me are those filled with dreams of the poem we would make out of life—­if—­if—­”

Her voice faltered and he felt the exquisite caress of her lips trembling against his cheek.  As though she were utterly spent, she ended where she had begun, “I love you—­I love—­I love you.”

He was aware now that another car whirred behind them.  He managed—­it took all the force in his soul—­to put her from him.  He turned to see if they had been observed; the passengers in the other car, intent on their own chatter, did not look; only the chauffeur regarded their chassis with a professional eye, as though wondering if they were stalled.  When Blake drew a long breath and looked back at Annette, her face was buried in her hands.  And now, when he touched her, she drew slowly away.

“Oh, drive on—­drive on!” she said.

“Oh, Annette—­dearest.”

“Don’t speak.  I beg you—­drive on or I shall die!”

And though the car wavered dangerously under his unsteady touch, he obeyed, managed to gain the highroad without a spill, and to turn north.

She wept silently.  When at last she took her hands away and turned her face on him, his lover’s observation saw how beautifully she wept.  Her eyes were not red, her face was calm.  He took heart from her glance, began to babble foolish love words.  But she stopped him.

“You are driving away from home,” she said.  “Drive back, and don’t speak yet.”

After he had turned, her tears ceased.  She dried her eyes.  Now she smiled a little, and her voice grew natural.

“I must never be weak again,” she said.  “But it was sweet.  Dear, might I touch your arm?  No, you must not stop again.  Just my hand on your arm.”

“Dearest, why do you ask?” She drew off her glove, and all the way a light, steady pressure made uncertain his wheel-hand.  They drove a mile so—­two miles—­and neither spoke until they came out into inhabited Upper Broadway.  At the appearance of crowds, trucks and the perils of the highway, that silver thread of silence broke.  She drew her hand away, and took up the last word of ten minutes ago.