“A moment or two ago,” she replied simply.
“Then you heard—” he asked involuntarily.
“I heard,” she said slowly. “I heard your silence.”
Bertrand raised his two hands and hid his face in them. Never in his life had he felt so ashamed. Deydier went to his daughter’s side: he wanted to take her in his arms, to comfort her for this humiliation, which he had been the means of putting upon her, but she turned away from her father and came near to Bertrand. She seized both his wrists with her tiny hands, and dragged them away from his face.
“Look at me, Bertrand,” she said gently. And when his eyes, shamed and passionately imploring met hers, she went on quietly.
“Listen, Bertrand, when yesterday, on our dear island, I confessed to you that I had loved you—all my life—I did it without any thought, any hope that you loved me in return—You could not love me yet—I myself should despise you if you could so easily forget one love for another—but I did it with the firm belief that in time you would learn to love me——”
“Nicolette!” Bertrand cried, and her sweetsounding name was choked in a sob.
“Listen, my dear,” she continued firmly. “Nothing that has passed between my father and you can alter that belief—I love you and I shall love you all my life—I know that it is foolish to suppose that your family would come here and humbly beg me to be your wife—it would also be mad folly to ask you to give up your career in order to bury yourself here out of the world with me. That is not my idea of love: that was not in my thoughts yesterday when I confessed my love to you.”
“Nicolette!”
This time it was her father who protested, but she paid no heed to him. She was standing beside Bertrand and she was pleading for her love.