“I know not. But it is a growing fascination. Oh, my dear physician, interfere. If it goes on, we shall be more wretched than ever.” Then she enveloped Rhoda in her arms, and rested a hot cheek against hers.
“I see,” said Rhoda. “You are afraid he will make you love him.”
“I hope not. But artists are impressionable; and being looked at so, by one I esteem, night after night, when my nerves are strung—cela m'agace;” and she gave a shiver, and then was a little hysterical; and that was very unlike her.
Rhoda kissed her, and said resolutely she would stop it.
“Not unkindly?”
“Oh no.”
“You will not tell him it is offensive to me?”
“No.”
“Pray do not give him unnecessary pain.”
“No.”