"I will light the lamp, and read to you.

Let me move your chair back from the window." "No, you must not light the lamp; I like the moonlight better.

Bring your chair and sit here by me--here." He leaned and half-pulled toward him the companion to the chair on which he sat, a low, soft, easy one.
I sat down in it, sitting so I nearly faced him.

The moon was shining in at the one wide window: I can remember exactly the pattern that the vine-leaves made as the moonlight fell through them on the carpet at our feet.

I had a bunch of verbena-leaves fastened in my dress, and I never smell verbena-leaves at any time or place without seeing before me that moon-traced pattern and that wide-open window.
"Pauline," he said, in that low, thrilling voice, leaning a little toward me, "I have a great deal to say to you to-night.