He brought to her the book he had written for her that it might tell her the things which his lips had left unsaid. After she had commenced it, she refused to see him until she had reached the end.
She heard his footsteps in the passage; her eyes were watching before he entered. Her lips moved, but she thought better of it. He drew a chair to her side. “Well?”
She gazed out of the window. “It’s all about us.” Then, with a laughing glance at him, “I don’t know whatever you’d do, if you didn’t have me to write about.”
“I wrote it for you,” he whispered, “so that you might understand.”
She frowned. “And I was in California, having such good times.”
He waited.
“It’s very beautiful.” After an interval she repeated her words, “It’s very beautiful.” Without looking at him, she took his hand. “But it isn’t me. It’s the magic cloak—the girl you’d like me to become. I never shall be like that. If that’s what you think I am, you’ll be disappointed.” She turned to him appealingly. “Meester Deek, you make me frightened. You expect so much; you’re willing to give so much yourself. But I’m cold. I couldn’t return a grand passion. Wouldn’t you be content with less? Couldn’t we be happy if——”
He wanted to lie to her.
“You couldn’t,” she said.
He met her honest eyes. “No, I couldn’t. If—if you feel no passion after all these months, you’d feel less when we were married.”