"Only so young that you may--possibly--make the mistake of loving too well." "What do you mean ?" Her voice had a startled note; she pressed nearer to him.
He lifted a hand and pointed to the silver pathway on the sea.

"I mean that love is just moonshine--just moonshine; the dream of a night that passes." "Not in a night!" she cried, and there was anguish in the words.
He bent again swiftly and kissed her lips.

"No, not in a night, sweetheart.

Not even in two.

But at last--at last--_tout passe_!" "Then it isn't love!" she said with conviction.
He snapped his fingers at the moonlight with a gesture half-humorous, yet half-defiant.