I can't leave you here--lonely, for you are lonely.

I am lonely too; all the more lonely because I carry about with me--you--you as you stood in the chalet at night looking through the open window, with the candle-light striking upward on your face, and with your reluctant smile upon your lips--you as you lay on the top of the Aiguille d'Argentiere with the wonder of a new world in your eyes--you as you said good-by in the sunset and went down the winding path to the forest.

If you only knew, Sylvia!" "Yes, but I don't know," she answered, and now she looked at him.

"I suppose that, if I loved, I should know, I should understand." Her hands lay in his, listless and unresponsive to the pressure of his.
She spoke slowly and thoughtfully, meeting his gaze with troubled eyes.
"Yet you were glad to see me when I came," he urged.
"Glad, yes! You are my friend, my one friend.

I was very glad.