“Marielle…” He spoke very gently as the soft reddish brown hair concealed half her face. “I can't do this anymore…you're driving me mad.” But he was doing the same to her, and she loved it. Neither of them had ever felt anything like this before.

She smiled at him, seeming very old and wise, as he leaned over and kissed her. He felt almost drunk when he was near her. The only thing he knew for sure was that he didn't want to lose her. Not now, not ever. He didn't want to go back to New York for her, now or later, to plead for her hand, or negotiate with her father. He didn't want to wait another hour. He wanted her now. In this room, in this house. In Paris. He wanted her with him always. “Marielle?” He looked at her very soberly and her eyes grew dark.

“Yes?” She spoke very softly. She was so young, yet she was so in love with him, and he knew her well enough to sense how strong her spirit.

“Will you many me?”

He heard her gasp, and then she laughed. “Are you serious?”

“I am…God knows…will you?” He was terrified. What if she said no? His whole life seemed to depend on what she would say in the next minute. What if she wouldn't marry him? What if she wanted to go home with her parents after all? What if it was only a game to her? But he knew from the look in her eyes that his worries were foolish.

“When?” She was giggling she was so excited.

“Now.” And he meant it.

“You're not serious.”

“I am.” He stood up and began to pace the room, like a very handsome young lion, running a hand through his hair as he made plans and watched her. “I am very serious, Marielle.” He stopped dead and looked at her, everything about him taut and electric. “You still haven't answered my question.” He rushed to her side, and held her tightly in his arms until she laughed he was being so absurd.