he repeated.

He took her hand. His was hot.

"Robin--I'm a coward," she said.

Her voice quivered.

"Oh, my dearest!" he exclaimed, melted in a moment.

He took her other hand, and she felt his hands throbbing. His clasp
was so ardent that it startled her into forgetting everything for one
instant, everything that except these clasping hands loved her hands,
loved her. That instant was exquisitely sweet to her. There was a
stinging sweetness in it, a mystery of sweetness, as if their four hands
were four souls longing to be lost in one another.

"Now you'll trust me," he said.

She released her hands and immediately her terror of doubt returned.

"Let us go into the garden," she answered.

He followed her to the path beside the wall.

"I looked for you from here," she said.

"I did not see you."

"No. When I heard the boat I--Robin, I'm afraid--I'm afraid."

"Of me, Viola?"

He laughed joyously.

"Take off your veil," he said.

"No, no--not yet. I want to tell you first--"

"To tell me what?"

"That my--that my--Robin, I'm not beautiful now."

Her voice quivered again.

"You tell me so," he answered.

"It's true."

"I don't believe it."

"But," she began, almost desperately, "it's true, Robin, oh, it's true!
When Fritz--"

She stopped. She was choking.

"Oh--Fritz!" he said with scathing contempt.

"No, no, listen! You've got to listen." She put her hand on his arm.
"When Fritz saw me--afterwards he--he was afraid of me. He couldn't
speak to me. He just looked and said--and said--"

Tears were running down behind the veil. He put up his hand to hers,
which still touched his arm.

"Don't tell me what he said. What do I care? Viola, you know I've almost
longed for this--no, not that, but--can't you understand that when one
loves a woman one loves something hidden, something mystical? It's so
much more than a face that one loves. One doesn't want to live in a
house merely because it's got a nice front door."

He laughed again as if he were half ashamed of his own feeling.

"Is that true, Robin?"

The sound of her voice told him that he need not be afraid to be
passionate.

"Sit down here," he said.

They had reached an old stone bench at the end of the garden where the
woods began. Two cypresses towered behind it, sad-looking sentinels.
There was a gap in the wall here through which the lake could be seen as
one sat upon the bench.

"I want to make you understand, to make yo