“Ah,” she said.
“I love you.... I adore you.”
“No,” she replied, with the merest hint of a smile. “It is not so. You do not love me.”
“You are very lovely.... You are poor—you shall be rich. You are unknown—you shall be famous.... And I love you.”
She did not lift her eyes now, but sat very still and looked at her plate. Her face told him nothing; it had not altered its expression of detached gravity—and it intrigued him, made her the more desirable because he could not understand her. Her lips quivered, she closed her eyes and drew a little breath which was almost a sigh.
“It cannot be, monsieur.”
He sat erect, astonished, really astonished.
“You—you refuse?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You refuse fame and wealth and all that may be yours?”