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"
Was
she
more
beautiful
than
I
am
?
"
"
I
do
n't
know
,
"
said
Amory
shortly
.
One
night
they
walked
while
the
moon
rose
and
poured
a
great
burden
of
glory
over
the
garden
until
it
seemed
fairyland
with
Amory
and
Eleanor
,
dim
phantasmal
shapes
,
expressing
eternal
beauty
in
curious
elfin
love
moods
.
Then
they
turned
out
of
the
moonlight
into
the
trellised
darkness
of
a
vine-hung
pagoda
,
where
there
were
scents
so
plaintive
as
to
be
nearly
musical
.
"
Light
a
match
,
"
she
whispered
.
"
I
want
to
see
you
.
"
Scratch
!
Flare
!
The
night
and
the
scarred
trees
were
like
scenery
in
a
play
,
and
to
be
there
with
Eleanor
,
shadowy
and
unreal
,
seemed
somehow
oddly
familiar
.
Amory
thought
how
it
was
only
the
past
that
ever
seemed
strange
and
unbelievable
.
The
match
went
out
.
"
It
's
black
as
pitch
.
"
"
We
're
just
voices
now
,
"
murmured
Eleanor
,
"
little
lonesome
voices
.
Light
another
.
"
"
That
was
my
last
match
.
"
Suddenly
he
caught
her
in
his
arms
.
