They sat upon the white-cushioned divan, and St. George half knelt
beside her as he had knelt that night in the fleeing motor, and
there were an hundred things to say and an hundred things to hear.
And because this fragment of the past since they had met was
incontestably theirs, and because the future hung trembling before
them in a mist of doubt, they turned happy, hopeful eyes to that
future, clinging to each other's hands. The little chamber of
translucent white, where one looked down to a mirrored dome and up
to a kind of sky, became to them a place bounded by the touch and
the look and the voice of each other, as every place in the world is
bounded for every heart that beats.
"Sweetheart," said St. George presently, "do you remember that you
are a princess, and I'm merely a kind of man?"
Was it not curious, he thought, that his lips did not speak a new
language of their own accord?
"I know," corrected Olivia adorably, "that I'm a kind of princess.
But what use is that when it only makes trouble for us?"
"Us"--"makes trouble for us.
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