_Mylyi moi._"
The strange words pleased him; he must know their meaning, and learn to
pronounce them himself. And all this between their dainty dishes took
time, so it was an hour later before they started for their walk.
Up, up those winding paths among the firs and larches--up and up to the
top. They dawdled slowly until they reached their goal. There, aloof from
the beaten track, safe from the prying eyes of some chance stranger, they
sat down, their backs against a giant rock, and all the glory of their
lake and tree-tops to gaze at down below.
Paul had carried her cloak, and now they spread it out, covering their
couch of moss and lichen. A soft languor was over them both. Passion was
asleep for the while. But what exquisite bliss to sit thus, undisturbed in
their eyrie--he and she alone in all the world.
Her words came back to him: "Love means to be clasped, to be close, to be
touching, to be One!" Yes, they were One.
Then she began to talk softly, to open yet more windows in his soul to joy
and sunshine. Her mind seemed so vast, each hour gave him fresh surprises
in the perception of her infinite knowledge, while she charmed his fancy
by her delicate modes of expression and un-English perfect pronunciation,
no single word slurred over.
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