It was all like a banquet where he sat for this half-hour of his youth and tried to enjoy brilliant epicurean courses.
Dimly he promised himself a time where all should be welded together.
For months it seemed that he had alternated between being borne along a stream of love or fascination, or left in an eddy, and in the eddies he had not desired to think, rather to be picked up on a wave's top and swept along again.
"The despairing, dying autumn and our love--how well they harmonize!" said Eleanor sadly one day as they lay dripping by the water.
"The Indian summer of our hearts--" he ceased.
"Tell me," she said finally, "was she light or dark ?" "Light." "Was she more beautiful than I am ?" "I don't know," said Amory shortly.
One night they walked while the moon rose and poured a great burden of glory over the garden until it seemed fairyland with Amory and Eleanor, dim phantasmal shapes, expressing eternal beauty in curious elfin love moods.

Then they turned out of the moonlight into the trellised darkness of a vine-hung pagoda, where there were scents so plaintive as to be nearly musical.
"Light a match," she whispered.

"I want to see you." Scratch! Flare! The night and the scarred trees were like scenery in a play, and to be there with Eleanor, shadowy and unreal, seemed somehow oddly familiar.
Amory thought how it was only the past that ever seemed strange and unbelievable.

The match went out.
"It's black as pitch." "We're just voices now," murmured Eleanor, "little lonesome voices.
Light another." "That was my last match." Suddenly he caught her in his arms.
"You _are_ mine--you know you're mine!" he cried wildly...

the moonlight twisted in through the vines and listened...