"Yes, now, at this very moment--or, if not, when?" he asked vehemently.
"But here, in this garden--you are right, this is no place for two human
beings so happy as we are. Come with me; come into the house and lead
the way to a spot where we may be unseen and unheard, alone with each
other and our happiness."

"No, no, no!" she hastily put in, pressing her hand to her aching brow.
"Come with me to the bench under the sycamore; it is shady there, and you
can tell me everything, and hear once more how entirely love has taken
possession of me."

He looked in her face, surprised and disappointed; but she turned towards
the sycamore and sat down beneath it. He slowly followed her. She
signed to him to take a seat by her side, but he stood up in front of
her, saying sadly and despondently.

"Always the same--always calm and cold. Is this fair, Paula? Is this
the overwhelming love of which you spoke? Is this your response to the
yearning cry of a passionately ardent heart? Is this all that love can
grant to love--that a betrothed owes to her lover on the very eve of
parting?"

At this she looked up at him, deeply distressed, and said in pathetically
urgent entreaty: "O Orion, Orion! Have I not told you, can you not see
and feel how much I love you? You must know and feel it; and if you do,
be content, I entreat. You, whom alone I love, be satisfied to know that
this heart is yours, that your Paula--your own Paula, for that indeed I
am--will think of nothing, care for nothing, pray and entreat Heaven for
nothing but you, yes you, my own, my all."