All the conventions that man can invent will not keep back the flower.

All created things, animate and inanimate, have in them an uncontrollable impulse which, in their spring, reverts with a holy retrospect to the great first principle of existence, the love of reproduction.
Yolanda's spring had come, and her heart was a flower with the sacred bloom.

Being a woman, she loved it and cuddled it for the sake of the pain it brought, as a mother fondles a wayward child.

Max, being a man, struggled against the joy that hurt him and, with a sympathy broad enough for two, feared the pain he might bring to Yolanda.

So this unresponsiveness in Max made him doubly attractive to the girl, who was of the sort, whether royal or bourgeois, before whom men usually fall.
"I thought you had left me, Sir Max," she said, drawing him to a seat beside her in the shade.
"I promised you I would not go," he responded, "and I would not willingly break my word to any one, certainly not to you, Fraeulein." "I was angry when I heard you had left the inn," she said, "and I spoke unkindly of you.