“I, my friend? I can take care of myself.”
The fire was languishing. The shadows were deepening between them. She said, in a dreamy tone:
“It is true, however, that it is never prudent to leave a woman alone.”
He went near her, trying to see her eyes in the darkness. He took her hand.
“You love me?” he said.
“Oh, I assure you that I do not love another but—”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I am thinking—I am thinking that we are separated all through the summer; that in winter you live with your parents and your friends half the time; and that, if we are to see so little of each other, it is better not to see each other at all.”
He lighted the candelabra. His frank, hard face was illuminated. He looked at her with a confidence that came less from the conceit common to all lovers than from his natural lack of dignity. He believed in her through force of education and simplicity of intelligence.
“Therese, I love you, and you love me, I know. Why do you torment me? Sometimes you are painfully harsh.”