"But, my dear, I couldn't! It seemed so—so cold-blooded, so calculating. I couldn't let you think of me as calculating, could I? You might not care for me so much."
He scarcely heard her. A change had come over him, he was apparently filled with a nervous elation, moving jerkily around the room, snapping his fingers, whistling softly under his breath, picking up small objects and examining them unseeingly, then setting them down again. Thérèse watched him narrowly, suspicion deepening in her eyes. At last she spoke.
"Arthur, come to me."
He approached her mechanically, engrossed in his own thoughts.
"No, closer. I want to look at you."
He met her gaze without interest, looking through her at some vision beyond.
"Arthur, all you are thinking about is the money. The thought of that makes you happy. Is not that so?"
He gave a forced laugh.
"Good God, what makes you think that? If you do think it."
"It's the way you look. You are not thinking of me one little bit.
Arthur, if for one moment I thought you no longer cared for me…"