He pressed a small object into her palm, and as she held it up, it caught the pale shine of the stars.
"What is it?" she asked.
"A key. A silver key."
"What is it for?"
"To unlock the door of a house. Our house."
"But how perfectly absurd!"
"Why?"
"It can't be 'ours.' It may be yours, but it certainly isn't mine."
"It will be some day. I bought it because you are to live in it. I may have to wait—a thousand years. But in the end you'll come."
"In a thousand years there'll be no house."
"Yes. My dream of it will make it real forever, and some day, even if we should be separated here, your reincarnated spirit will find mine waiting on the steps!"
"Don't," she said sharply. "I don't want to come to you as a reincarnated spirit."
"Then come now."
"No. Please don't make love to me, Crispin . . . Your will is so strong . . . And I don't want to be won like that—because your will is stronger. If I ever—care—I want my heart to run to meet you."
He caught both her hands in his. "Pray God that time may come!" he said hoarsely, then flung her hands away and stood up.
"It's time to go," he said, "if I'm to keep my head."
As they walked along together, he told her of the buying of the little house. "It is on the road to
