"Consent? What do you think of me? Yes, I consent."
"Only to be friends? You understand that part?"
"I agree to that, to begin with. Because I'm so mad about you. I'd take you at any price."
"To 'begin with'?"
"Till I can make you care. I'm a man and you're a woman. And the rest may come. I'll chance it."
"No. You mustn't hope for that. It won't come. I don't want it to come."
"Hope isn't easy to kill. If it was, I guess the war wouldn't have ended the way it has. You don't know how I love you. Why, the thought even of calling you 'my wife' is—is a kind of glorious shell-shock."
He laughed out, shyly yet violently, like a boy: and of a sudden Marise felt sick with guilt. "I mustn't let you be happy!" she cried.
"Why not? You needn't grudge me that. But you haven't named the day yet—Marise. Lord! The thrill it gives me to say 'Marise' to your face—the way I've been saying it behind your back."
"You make me feel—a little beast!" The words spoke themselves, straight out of her conscience. "I can't fix a time yet, because—if I'd explained to you properly you mightn't have decided as you have. And it's no use trying any more. I can't do it. Oh!" (as she saw his face flush again, and pale to a sickly brown) "perhaps I see what was in your head at first—what's come back there now. But I'm not so much of a beast as that. My wishing to marry someone has nothing to do with the past. No, the reason's all mixed up with the future. You could never guess. I could never explain. And I couldn't let you marry me unless everything had been explained. I thought for a minute I could—and I wanted to—but I find I'm not like that. Tony—Lord Severance—must explain. Yes, of course. When I've telephoned—no, written to him—he will do it. I haven't really spoken to him of you yet. He doesn't even know that—you care about me. If I make an appointment, will you call at the Waldorf, where he is staying?"