"But I like to hear you say it. You were wrong!"
"Yes, I was wrong."
"You mean it, dear—you are not deceiving me?"
"No, Barbara, I am not deceiving you."
She pouted. "It is nothing but 'Barbara, Barbara.' 'Yes, Barbara,' 'No, Barbara.' Not so very long ago you would say, 'No, my love,' 'Yes, my darling.' Now, my dear, dear boy, say out of your very heart, 'I am not deceiving you, my darling.'"
I repeated the words; to have refused, to have hesitated, would have destroyed the good work, the better understanding, of which I seemed to see the promise.
"I am not deceiving you, my darling."
"Oh, how good it is to hear you speak like that! It is like waking out of a horrid dream to a delightful reality. And you truly, truly love me?"
Again I answered, under pressure. "I truly love you."
"Then I don't care for anything else in the wide, wide world, and I am the happiest woman in it. You had almost forgotten, had you not, John, that I was alone in this city, without a friend but you? I have only you—only you. I hardly cared to live, for what is life without love? But I was frightening myself unnecessarily—or were you doing it just to try me. You will be kind to me, will you not, dear?'