‘You do love me?’ he demanded.
I nodded, and sat down.
‘Say it, say it!’ he pleaded.
‘More than I can ever show you,’ I said proudly.
‘Honestly,’ he said, ‘I can’t imagine what you have been able to see in me. I’m nothing—I’m nobody—’
‘Foolish boy!’ I exclaimed. ‘You are you.’
The profound significance of that age-worn phrase struck me for the first time.
He rushed to me at the word ‘boy,’ and, standing over me, took my hand in his hot hand. I let it lie, inert.
‘But you haven’t always loved me. I have always loved you, from the moment when I drove with you, that first day, from the office to your hotel. But you haven’t always loved me.’
‘No,’ I admitted.