“But—you are fond of me?” said Camelia; and as she spoke, from under the solemn pressure of her eyelids, pressed down as on a dead hope, great tears came slowly.
“Great Heaven! Fond of you? Fond of you? Yes—yes, my dear Camelia.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead above the closed eyes.
“Ah!” she murmured, “I was so sure you loved me!” More than its rigid misery, the humble bewilderment on her face, as of a creature stricken helpless, and not comprehending its pain, hurt him, warned him that every moment made it more difficult to keep down the fluttering of a longing he would not, must never satisfy. He seemed to crush a harsh hand on its delicate wings as he said—
“And now you will go. You will let me walk home with you?”
She shook her head. “No, no.”
She went towards the door, her hand still in his.
“You should not go alone. I beg of you, dear, to let me come.”
“I would rather go alone.”
They were in the hall, and she had not looked at him again. She put her hand out to the door and then she paused. Perior had also paused.
“Will you kiss me good-bye?” she said.