She did not rave and vow and swear. She did not show the least excitement. She seated herself and, fixing upon me a look which I can only describe as tenacious, she said:
“Whether you believe me or not, I love you. And I shall not give you up.”
My internal agitation instantly cleared away. I am always nervous about crossing a bridge until my foot touches it; thenceforth I am too busy crossing to bother about myself. “Well—what do you propose?” said I.
“To be your wife,” replied she. “To show you how sorry I am for the way I have acted, to show you by thinking only of making you happy.”
“Yes? And what will you do to make me happy?”
“Look after your comfort—your home, Godfrey.”
“But you don’t know about that sort of thing,” said I. “You know only how to make a house attractive to other people. You are far too fine for a private housekeeper.”
“I shall learn,” said she sweetly. “Those things are not difficult.”
I smiled at this unconscious confession of incapacity to learn the most difficult of all the arts. “You will practice on me, eh? Thank you—but no. You wouldn’t make me comfortable. You’d only harass yourself and deprive me of comfort—and for years. ‘Those things’ are less easy than you imagine. You are set in your ways, I in mine.”
“You don’t realize,” protested she confidently. “You must be lonely, Godfrey. You need companionship—sympathy. I can give it to you now—for, I am awake at last. I know my own mind and heart.”