He was aware that his face altered and that his colour rose. He had to steady something, in his glance and in his voice, the pressure of his new consciousness was so great, as he answered, “Yes, she’s been painting all the morning.”
“I haven’t seen her for some days now,” Mrs. Dallas remarked.
“No.” The longing in him to confide in her, to pour out his grief and his devotion, was so strong that for the moment he could find only the simple negative.
“I quite miss Marian,” Mrs. Dallas added.
He looked down at the little foot placed on a cushion beside him, and he said, “You’ve always been so kind, so charming to Marian.” He remembered Marian’s words with a deepened wrath and tenderness.
“Have I? I’m glad you think so. It’s been very easy,” said Mrs. Dallas.
A silence fell.
“May I talk to you?” Rupert jerked out suddenly. “May I tell you things I’ve been feeling? I have been feeling so much—about you—about myself.—I long to tell you.”
“By all means tell me,” said Mrs. Dallas with great placidity; and one could see that she had often made the same sort of reply to the same sort of appeal.
“You know what you have been to me,” said Rupert, turning on the step so that he could look up at her. “You know how it’s all grown—beautifully, inevitably. No one has ever been to me what you are.”