thought, because he adored her, but because it was thus that look
should answer look; he pressed her wet eyes reverently because thus it
was written in his delicious part; his heart throbbed with hers that
they might beat in time. He did not love, but he was the perfect
lover; he was the artist trying in a mad moment to be as well as to
do. Love was their theme; but how to know what was said when between
lovers it is only the loose change of conversation that gets into
words? The important matters cannot wait so slow a messenger; while
the tongue is being charged with them, a look, a twitch of the mouth,
a movement of a finger, transmits the story, and the words arrive,
like Blücher, when the engagement is over.

With a sudden pretty gesture--ah, so like her mother's!--she held the
glove to his lips. "It is sad because you have forgotten it."

"I have kissed it so often, Grizel, long before I thought I should
ever kiss you!"

She pressed it to her innocent breast at that. And had he really done
so? and which was the first time, and the second, and the third? Oh,
dear glove, you know so much, and your partner lies at home in a
drawer knowing nothing. Grizel felt sorry for the other glove. She
whispered to Tommy as a terrible thing, "I think I love this glove
even more than I love you--just a tiny bit more." She could not part
with it. "It told me before you did," she explained, begging him to
give it back to her.

"If you knew what it was to me in those unhappy days, Grizel!"

"I want it to tell me," she whispered.