I did not let my face betray me. I waited before speaking until I was sure of my voice. “Impossible,” I said, perhaps rather curtly—for, mind you, I wished to deal honestly with her, and was not trying to hint my love while pretending to hide it. I know there is a notion that love cannot be controlled. But the kind of love that can’t be controlled is a selfish, greedy appetite and not love at all. When the man doesn’t control his love the woman may be sure he is thinking of himself only, of her merely as a possible means of pleasure—is thinking of her as the hungry hunter thinks of the fine fat rabbit. Said I:
“Now for my report on Beechman.”
But she would not let me escape. “Why are you short with me?” she asked. “Have I offended you?”
“No, indeed,” said I. “You’ve been everything that’s kind and friendly.”
“The very idea of losing your friendship frightens me,” she went on. “I’ve a feeling for you—a feeling of—of intimacy”—she flushed rosily—“that I have for no one else in the world. Oh, I don’t expect you to return it. No doubt I seem insignificant to you. Almost anyone would want your friendship. You are sure you aren’t leaving because you are bored?”
“Absolutely sure. If I could explain my reason for going you would see that I must. But I can’t explain. So you’ll be glad to hear that I find Beechman even more of a man than I thought.”
She looked at me apologetically. “You’ll think me foolish, but since I’ve begun to try to like him better I’ve been—almost—not liking him.”
I am sure I beamed with delight. For, there are limits—very narrow ones—to unselfishness in the most considerate love. And I am not able to pose as more than feebly unselfish. “That isn’t fair to him,” I said, with more enthusiasm in my words than in my tone. “I’ve been judging him as carefully as I know how, and I must in honesty say he is a rare man. You’ll not find many like him.”
“Don’t tell me he’s worthy,” she cried, “or I shall loathe him.”
“And he cares for you,” I said.