He ceased speaking, and looked straitly and darkly before him. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
“I tell you,” he continued violently after a short interval, “I am very much too good. Whatever you bid me do, that I do. Whatever you bid me not do, that I do not. And you do not thank me, or trust me, or treat me as a friend. Vous avez toujours peur de moi. When I approach you, you have always the air to expect that I will displease you. Have I deserved that? Have I behaved badly once? Did I kiss you when you knew nothing and I held you there in the mud—the night when I lose my umbrella? Mon Dieu, you are very drôle, if you have known many men and do not appreciate me.”
He stopped as if choked.
They had passed beyond the bridge and entered upon a path along the river bank, a path bordered with willow trees. The sky was more brilliantly gorgeous than ever, but under foot it was wet indeed.
“Try not to stamp so much as you walk,” she asked him very gently; “you keep splashing me.”
“What is splash?” he demanded gloomily; “something that annoys your ears?”
“No, something that spoils my boots.”
“I do not care if I spoil those boots; I find them most ugly.”
“Perhaps; but I could not be here but for them.”
He walked on with somewhat less vigor.