‘Then when did you—? Tell me.’
‘I was dull at first—I could not see. But when you told me that the end of Fate and Friendship was not as good as I could make it—do you remember, that afternoon in the office?—and how reluctant you were to tell me, how afraid you were to tell me?—your throat went dry, and you stroked your forehead as you always do when you are nervous—There! you are doing it now, foolish boy!’
I seized his left arm, and gently pulled it down from his face. Oh, exquisite moment!
‘It was brave of you to tell me—very brave! I loved you for telling me. You were quite wrong about the end of that book. You didn’t see the fine point of it, and you never would have seen it—and I liked you, somehow, for not seeing it, because it was so feminine—but I altered the book to please you, and when I had altered it, against my conscience, I loved you more.’
‘It’s incredible! incredible!’ he muttered, half to himself. ‘I never hoped till lately that you would care for me. I never dared to think of such a thing. I knew you oughtn’t to! It passes comprehension.’
‘That is just what love does,’ I said.
‘No, no,’ he went on quickly; ‘you don’t understand; you can’t understand my feelings when I began to suspect, about two months ago, that, after all, the incredible had happened. I’m nothing but your publisher. I can’t talk. I can’t write. I can’t play. I can’t do anything. And look at the men you have here! I’ve sometimes wondered how often you’ve been besieged—’
‘None of them was like you,’ I said. ‘Perhaps that is why I have always kept them off.’
I raised my eyes and lips, and he stooped and kissed me. He wanted to take me in his arms again, but I would not yield myself.
‘Be reasonable,’ I urged him. ‘Ought we not to think of our situation?’