"You don't trust me!" he said, without any greeting.
She went up to him and put out her hand.
"Robin!" she said.
"You don't trust me," he repeated.
He took her hand. His was hot.
"Robin--I'm a coward," she said.
Her voice quivered.
"Oh, my dearest!" he exclaimed, melted in a moment.
He took her other hand, and she felt his hands throbbing. His clasp was
so ardent that it startled her into forgetting everything for one
instant, everything that except these clasping hands loved her hands,
loved her. That instant was exquisitely sweet to her. There was a
stinging sweetness in it, a mystery of sweetness, as if their four hands
were four souls longing to be lost in one another.
"Now you'll trust me," he said.
She released her hands and immediately her terror of doubt returned.
"Let us go into the garden," she answered.
He followed her to the path beside the wall.
"I looked for you from here," she said.
"I did not see you."
"No. When I heard the boat I--Robin, I'm afraid--I'm afraid."
"Of me, Viola?"
He laughed joyously.
"Take off your veil," he said.
"No, no--not yet. I want to tell you first--"
"To tell me what?"
"That my--that my--Robin, I'm not beautiful now."
Her voice quivered again.
"You tell me so," he answered.
"It's true."
"I don't believe it."
"But," she began, almost desperately, "it's true, Robin, oh, it's true!
When Fritz--"
She stopped.
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