"Aimée. That means Beloved, doesn't it?"

She was silent.

Surely, she thought with a swelling heart, if he were sorry he would
tell her now. It was the moment for contrition, for appeasement, for
whatever explanation his American ways might have.

She had thought about him all night. She had given his declaration a
hundred forms--but always it had been a declaration.

Now she waited, flagellating her sensitive pride.

Ryder was conscious of the constraint tightening about them and in
the dragging pause an uncomfortable common sense had time to put its
disconcerting questions.

What did it matter what her name meant? What in the world was he
doing here?.... And what did she think she was doing here?... Not
that he wanted her to go....

And suddenly it didn't matter--whatever they thought. It was enough
that they were together in that still, soft, jasmine-scented dark.
He was breathing quickly; his pulses were beating; he had a feeling
of strange, heady delight.

The crescent moon was up at last, sailing clear of the house tops,
sending its bright rays through the filigree of tall shrubs. A
finger of light edged the contour of her shrouded head.