Below them spread the divinely colored plain, crossed by the ancient yellow river, rolling its age-old memories out to the sea, a blue reminder of the restfulness of eternity, at the rim of the weary old land.  Like a little cluster of tiny, tarnished pearls, Rome gleamed palely, remote and legendary.

* * * * *

The two young people looked at each other earnestly, with a passionate, single-hearted attention to their own meaning, thrusting away impatiently the clinging brambles of speech which laid hold on their every effort to move closer to each other.  They did not look down, or away from each other’s eyes as they strove to free themselves, to step forward, to clasp the other’s outstretched hands.  They reached down blindly, tearing at those thorny, clutching entanglements, pulling and tugging at those tenuous, tough words which would not let them say what they meant:  sure, hopefully sure that in a moment . . . now . . . with the next breath, they would break free as no others had ever done before them, and crying out the truth and glory that was in them, fall into each other’s arms.

The girl was physically breathless with this effort, her lips parted, her eyebrows drawn together.  “Neale, Neale dear, if I could only tell you how I want it to be, how utterly utterly true I want us to be.  Nothing’s of any account except that.”

She moved with a shrugging, despairing gesture.  “No, no, not the way that sounds.  I don’t mean, you know I don’t mean any old-fashioned impossible vows never to change, or be any different!  I know too much for that.  I’ve seen too awfully much unhappiness, with people trying to do that.  You know what I told you about my father and mother.  Oh, Neale, it’s horribly dangerous, loving anybody.  I never wanted to.  I never thought I should.  But now I’m in it, I see that it’s not at all unhappiness I’m afraid of, your getting tired of me or I of you . . . everybody’s so weak and horrid in this world, who knows what may be before us?  That’s not what would be unendurable, sickening.  That would make us unhappy.  But what would poison us to death . . . what I’m afraid of, between two people who try to be what we want to be to each other . . . how can I say it?” She looked at him in an anguish of endeavor, “. . . not to be true to what is deepest and most living in us . . . that would be the betrayal I’m afraid of.  That’s what I mean.  No matter what it costs us personally, or what it brings, we must be true to that.  We must!”

He took her hand in his silently, and held it close.  She drew a long troubled breath and said, “You do think we can always have between us that loyalty to what is deep and living?  It does not seem too much to ask, when we are willing to give up everything else for it, even happiness?”

He gave her a long, profound look.  “I’m trying to give that loyalty to you this minute, Marise darling,” he said slowly, “when I tell you now that I think it a very great deal to ask of life, a very great deal for any human beings to try for.  I should say it was much harder to get than happiness.”