"As she told you yesterday, you've got to settle down within a few years or become absurd. And she——"
"It is because of the women I have known that you will not give me yourself," he said. "Oh, Neva, I have never loved but you." And in his agitation he clasped her hands and, dropping into French, cried with flaming eyes, "I adore you. You are my life, the light on my path—my star shining through the storm. You make me tremble with passion and with fear. Neva, my love, my soul——"
She snatched her hands away. She tried to look at him mockingly, but could not.
"Neva, my girl," he said in English again. "Do not wither my heart!"
"Boris," she answered gently, "I've tried to care for you as you wish me to care. I sent for you because I thought I had begun to succeed. But when I saw you again— I liked you, admired you, more than ever, more than anyone. But my dear, dear friend, I cannot give you what you ask. It simply will not yield."
He became calm as abruptly as he had burst into passion. Taking his heavily jeweled and engraved gold cigarette case from his pocket, he slowly extracted a cigarette, lighted it with great deliberation, blew out the match, blew out the lamp of the portable stove. "Why?" he said in a tone of pleasant bantering inquiry. "Please tell me why you do not and cannot love me."
She colored in confusion.
"Do not fear lest you will offend," urged he. "I ask impersonally. Feminine psychology is interesting."
"I'd rather not talk about it."
"Let me help you," he persisted amiably, so amiably that she had to remind herself of the sort of nature she knew he had, to quell a suspicion of treachery under his smoothness. "Because I am too—feminine?" he went on.