A sense of freedom replaced the natural reserve that had marked their first encounters in this little campaign of tenderness; they gave over being afraid of each other.

He was too shrewd, too crafty to venture an open declaration; too much of a gentleman to force her hand ruthlessly.

She understood and appreciated this considerateness.

Their conflict was with the eyes, the tone of the voice, the intervals of silence; no touch of the hand--nothing, except the strategies of Eros.
What did it matter if a few dead impulses, a few crippled ideals, a few blasted hopes were left strewn upon the battlefield at the end of the fortnight?
What mattered if there was grave danger of one or both of them receiving heart wounds that would cling to them all their lives?
What did anything matter, so long as Prince Karl of Brabetz was not there?
One night toward the end of this week of enchanting rencontres--this week of effort to uncover the vulnerable spot in the other's armour--Genevra stood leaning upon the rail which enclosed the hanging garden.

She was gazing abstractedly into the black night, out of which, far away, blinked the light in the bungalow.