She looked in his eyes for a moment, answering the
signal that shone thence; and then she laughed that
clear pipe of mirth which was so uniquely her own
possession.
“Oh, I say, you mustn’t do that,”
George cried. He was really perturbed.
“I can’t help it. You are so utterly
foolish.”
“I’m not. It’s the proper thing.
I tell you I’ve planned it all out. I love
you. I’ve never said it to you before.
Now it’s your turn.”
“But what on earth am I to say?”
“You’ve got to say that you love me.”
“You’re making a farce of it.”
“No, I tell you I’ve planned it all out.
I can’t go on till you’ve said it.”
“You can’t expect me to say: ‘George,
I love you.’ It’s ridiculous.
It’s like a funny story.”
“Oh, never mind what it’s like. Do
be serious, Mary. How can I be sure you love
me if you won’t tell me?”
For the first moment since its happening the thought
of Bob Chater and of Mrs. Chater passed completely
from Mary’s mind. She looked around:
there was no soul in sight. She listened:
there was no sound. She clasped her fingers about
his; leaned towards him, her face upturned....
He kissed her upon the lips....
“The plans,” said George after a moment,
“have all gone fut. I never thought of
that way.”
“It’s much better,” Mary said.
“The other’s not a patch upon it,”
said George.
You must conjecture of what lovers think when, following
their first kiss, they sit silent. It is not
a state that may be written down in such poor words
as your author commands. For the touch of lips
on lips is the key that turns the lock and gives admission
to a world dimly conceived, yet found to have been
wrongly conceived since conceived never to be so wonderful
or so beautiful as it does prove. Nor, ever again,
once the silence is broken and speech is found, has
that world an aspect quite the same. For the
door that divides this new world from the material
world can never from the inside be closed. It
is at first—for the space of that silence
after the first kiss—pushed very close
by those who have entered; but, soon after, the breath
of every rushing moment blows it further and further
ajar. Drab objects from the outer world drift
across the threshold and obtrude their presence—vagabond
tramps in a rose-garden, unpleasant, marring the surroundings,
soiling the atmosphere. Cares drift in, worldly
interests drift in; in drift smudgy, soiled, unpleasant
objects brushing the door yet wider upon its hinges
till it stands back to its furthest extent and the
interior becomes at one with the outer world.
The process is gradual, indiscernible. When completed
the knowledge of what has been done dawns suddenly.
One knocks against an intruder especially drab, starts
into wakefulness to rub the bruise, and looking around
exclaims, “And this is love!”
