To prove it Olivia touched it back.

To prove that _that_ was not incredible, St.George turned until his lips brushed her wrist.
"Don't you know, don't you, dear," he pressed the matter, "that very possibly these people here have really got the secret that all the rest of the world is talking about and hoping about and dreaming they will sometime know ?" Olivia heard of this likelihood with delicious imperturbability.
"I know a secret," she said, just above her breath, "worth two of that." "You'll never be sorry--never ?" he urged wistfully, resolutely denying himself the entire bliss of that answer.
"Never," said Olivia, "never.

Shall you ?" That was exceptionally easy to make clear, and thereafter he whimsically remembered something else: "You live in the king's palace now," he reminded her, "and this is another palace where you might live if you chose.

And you might be a queen, with drawing-rooms and a poet laureate and all the rest.

And in New York--in New York, perhaps we shall live in a flat." "No," she cried, "no, indeed! Not 'perhaps,' I _insist_ upon a flat." She looked about the room with its bench brought from the altar of a forgotten deity of dreams, with its line and colour dissolving to mirrored point and light--the mystic union of sight with dream--and she smiled at the divine incongruity and the divine resemblance.