It was actually true that he had so far had no boyish love affairs because he had all unconsciously been in love with the beautiful completeness of her.
Always when he returned home after festivities, he paused for a moment outside her bedroom door because he so often found her awake and waiting to talk to him if he were inclined to talk--to listen--to laugh softly--or perhaps only to say good-night in her marvel of a voice--a marvel because its mellow note held such love.
This time when, after entering the house and mounting the stairs he reached her door, he found it partly open.
"Come in," he heard her say.

"I went to sleep very early and awakened half an hour ago.

It is really morning." She was sitting up in a deep chair by the window.
"Let me look at you," she said with a little laugh.

"And then kiss me and go to bed." But even the lovely, faint early light revealed something to her.
"You walk like a young stag on the hillside," she said.

"You don't want to go to sleep at all.