“Oh, what can I say?” she cried helplessly.
“Say that you love me.”
“But I do not.”
Then he loosed her hand and ground his teeth.
“Decidedly you are queer,” he said bitterly; “it is there in your eyes and you will to deny it. You are senseless,—vous n’avez pas de cœur! I am always a fool to go on as I go.”
She turned her eyes upon him.
“Je ne suis pas pour vous,” she said gently and very, very sadly; “mais je ne suis pour personne non plus,” she added, and there was a tone in her voice that he had never heard before. His temper faded instantly.
“You think of me with kindness, always,—n’est-ce pas?” he said, returning her look.
Their eyes rested steadily upon each other for a little space. Then he exclaimed:
“You do love me,” and started to seize her in his arms forgetful of lights, streets, passers-by, and all other good reasons for self-restraint.