This idea does not seem to have occurred to him. One makes the
excuse for him that he was but three-and-twenty, that, framed in the
purple moonlight, she seemed to him the most beautiful creature his
eyes had ever seen. And then there was the brooding mystery of it
all, that atmosphere of far-off primeval times from which the roots
of life still draw their sap. One takes it he forgot that he was
Flight Commander Raffleton, officer and gentleman; forgot the proper
etiquette applying to the case of ladies found sleeping upon lonely
moors without a chaperon. Greater still, the possibility that he
never thought of anything at all, but, just impelled by a power
beyond himself, bent down and kissed her.
Not a platonic kiss upon the brow, not a brotherly kiss upon the
cheek, but a kiss full upon the parted lips, a kiss of worship and
amazement, such as that with which Adam in all probability awakened
Eve.
Her eyes opened, and, just a little sleepily, she looked at him.
There could have been no doubt in her mind as to what had happened.
His lips were still pressing hers. But she did not seem in the
least surprised, and most certainly not angry. Raising herself to a
sitting posture, she smiled and held out her hand that he might help
her up. And, alone in that vast temple, star-roofed and moon-
illumined, beside that grim grey altar of forgotten rites, hand in
hand they stood and looked at one another.
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