She reached up above her head, drawing down a flowering branch of Japanese orange, and caressed her delicate nose with the white blossoms, dreamily, then, mischievously: "I'm accustoming myself to this most significant perfume," she said, looking at him askance.

And she deliberately hummed the wedding march, watching the colour rise in his sullen face.
"If you had the courage of a sparrow you'd make life worth something for us both," he said.
"I know it; I haven't; but I seem to possess the remainder of his lordship's traits--inconsequence, self-centred selfishness, the instinct for Fifth Avenue nest-building--all the feathered vices, all the unlovely personality and futility and uselessness of my prototype.

...
Only, as you observe, I lack the quality of courage." "I don't know how much courage it requires to do what you're going to do," he said sulkily.
"Don't you?
Sometimes, when you wear a scowl like that, I think that it may require no more courage than I am capable of.

...

And sometimes--I don't know." She crossed her knees, one slender ankle imprisoned in her hand, leaning forward thoughtfully above the water.
"Our last day," she mused; "for we shall never be just you and I again--never again, my friend, after we leave this rocky coast of Eden.
...