“Once again—I do not despise you, but it terrifies me to find what you are capable of.”
“Is not that the same thing in other words? A man cannot love a woman if he is terrified at her conduct. Tell me straight out that you can no longer love me.”
“It would be a lie if I said so, Edith. You have killed our happiness, but not my love.”
She only heard the last words of his answer, and with brightening eyes flung herself on his breast.
“Then scold me as you like, you martinet! I will put up with anything patiently, if only I know that you still love me, and that you will be mine, all mine, as soon as this terrible war no longer stands between us like a frightful spectre.”
He did not return her caresses, and gently pushed her from him.
“Forgive me, if I must leave you now,” he said in a singularly depressed voice, “but I must be in Antwerp by daybreak.”
“Is it really so urgent? May I not go with you?”
“No, that is impossible, for I shall have to travel on an engine.”
“And when will you return?”