"Do you love him as I would have you love me?"
She paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon her, and then she answered the question in a low voice, but very clearly. "No," she said;—"not like that."
"Can you love me like that?" He put out both his arms as though to take her to his breast should the answer be such as he longed to hear. She raised her hand towards him, as if to keep him back, and left it with him when he seized it. "Is it mine?" he said.
"If you want it."
Then he was at her feet in a moment, kissing her hands and her dress, looking up into her face with his eyes full of tears, ecstatic with joy as though he had really never ventured to hope for such success. "Want it!" he said. "Hetta, I have never wanted anything but that with real desire. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this has been my only dream of happiness. And now it is my own."
She was very quiet, but full of joy. Now that she had told him the truth she did not coy her love. Having once spoken the word she did not care how often she repeated it. She did not think that she could ever have loved anybody but him,—even if he had not been fond of her. As to Roger,—dear Roger, dearest Roger,—no; it was not the same thing. "He is as good as gold," she said,—"ever so much better than you are, Paul," stroking his hair with her hand and looking into his eyes.
"Better than anybody I have ever known," said Montague with all his energy.
"I think he is;—but, ah, that is not everything. I suppose we ought to love the best people best; but I don't, Paul."
"I do," said he.
"No,—you don't. You must love me best, but I won't be called good. I do not know why it has been so. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimes thought I would do as he would have me, out of sheer gratitude. I did not know how to refuse such a trifling thing to one who ought to have everything that he wants."