How he was to help Mrs. Dallas except by loving her and coming to see her every day and being allowed to kiss her and hold her hand he did not clearly know, but it seemed the moment for returning to those offers of service. He did not attempt to regain her hand. Mingling with the rapture, when the kiss and the scent of the carnations had blurred his mind, there was also a sense of fear. He was different; and there was more in his love than he had known.
“Very unhappy? Not more than most people, I suppose. Why?” Mrs. Dallas asked. Her tone was changed. Her moment of diffusion, of languor and acceptance, was gone by.
“Why?” Rupert felt the change and the question hurt him. “When that’s your life?—This?”
“By that, do you mean my husband?” Mrs. Dallas inquired kindly. “He’s not my life. As for this—if you mean my situation and occupation—having love made to me by a pleasant young man while I smell carnations, I can assure you that there’s nothing I enjoy much more.”
She did more than hurt him now; she astonished him. “Don’t!” he breathed. It was as if something beautiful were being taken from him. Instinctively he stretched out his hand for hers and again she gave it; but now she looked clearly at him, a touch of malice in her smile, though her smile was always sweet.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend to be hard—flippant. Don’t hide from me. Give yourself to the real beauty that we have found.”
“I have just said that I enjoy it.”
“Enjoy is not the word,” said Rupert, in a low voice, looking down at the hand in his. “It’s an initiation. A dedication.”
“A dedication? To what?” Mrs. Dallas asked, and even more kindly; yet her kindness made her more removed.