The little chamber of translucent white, where one looked down to a mirrored dome and up to a kind of sky, became to them a place bounded by the touch and the look and the voice of each other, as every place in the world is bounded for every heart that beats.
"Sweetheart," said St.George presently, "do you remember that you are a princess, and I'm merely a kind of man ?" Was it not curious, he thought, that his lips did not speak a new language of their own accord?
"I know," corrected Olivia adorably, "that I'm a kind of princess.
But what use is that when it only makes trouble for us ?" "Us"-- "makes trouble for us." St.George wondered how he could ever have thought that he even guessed what happiness might be when "trouble for us" was like this.

He tried to say so, and then: "But do you know what you are doing ?" he persisted.

"Don't you see--dear, don't you see that by loving me you are giving up a world that you can never, never get back ?" Olivia looked down at the fair disordered hair on his temples.

It seemed incredible that she had the right to push it from his forehead.

But it was not incredible.