She breathed more quickly and warmly:  he took her right hand in his own right:  it was not withdrawn.  He put his left hand behind her neck till it came round upon her left cheek:  it was not thrust away.  Lightly pressing her, he brought her face and mouth towards his own; when, at this the very brink, some unaccountable thought or spell within him suddenly made him halt—­even now, and as it seemed as much to himself as to her, he timidly whispered ‘May I?’

Her endeavour was to say No, so denuded of its flesh and sinews that its nature would hardly be recognized, or in other words a No from so near the affirmative frontier as to be affected with the Yes accent.  It was thus a whispered No, drawn out to nearly a quarter of a minute’s length, the O making itself audible as a sound like the spring coo of a pigeon on unusually friendly terms with its mate.  Though conscious of her success in producing the kind of word she had wished to produce, she at the same time trembled in suspense as to how it would be taken.  But the time available for doubt was so short as to admit of scarcely more than half a pulsation:  pressing closer he kissed her.  Then he kissed her again with a longer kiss.

It was the supremely happy moment of their experience.  The ‘bloom’ and the ‘purple light’ were strong on the lineaments of both.  Their hearts could hardly believe the evidence of their lips.

‘I love you, and you love me, Cytherea!’ he whispered.

She did not deny it; and all seemed well.  The gentle sounds around them from the hills, the plains, the distant town, the adjacent shore, the water heaving at their side, the kiss, and the long kiss, were all ‘many a voice of one delight,’ and in unison with each other.

But his mind flew back to the same unpleasant thought which had been connected with the resolution he had broken a minute or two earlier.  ’I could be a slave at my profession to win you, Cytherea; I would work at the meanest, honest trade to be near you—­much less claim you as mine; I would—­anything.  But I have not told you all; it is not this; you don’t know what there is yet to tell.  Could you forgive as you can love?’ She was alarmed to see that he had become pale with the question.

‘No—­do not speak,’ he said.  ’I have kept something from you, which has now become the cause of a great uneasiness.  I had no right—­to love you; but I did it.  Something forbade—­’

‘What?’ she exclaimed.

’Something forbade me—­till the kiss—­yes, till the kiss came; and now nothing shall forbid it!  We’ll hope in spite of all. . .  I must, however, speak of this love of ours to your brother.  Dearest, you had better go indoors whilst I meet him at the station, and explain everything.’

Cytherea’s short-lived bliss was dead and gone.  O, if she had known of this sequel would she have allowed him to break down the barrier of mere acquaintanceship—­never, never!