He was recovering himself rapidly. Something in her eyes was sending the blood warmly through his veins; he felt better every instant.
“I do not want to think about him,” he murmured, “I do not want to think about any one else but you.”
She looked down at him with a half pathetic, half humorous twitching of her lips.
“You must please not make love to me, or I shall have to leave you,” she said. “The idea of thinking about such a thing in your condition! You don’t want to send me away, do you?”
“On the contrary,” he answered, “I want to keep you always with me.”
“That,” she said briefly, “is impossible.”
“Nothing,” he declared, “is impossible, if only we make up our minds to it. I have made up mine!”
“You are very masterful! Are all Englishmen as confident as you?”
“I know nothing about other men,” he declared. “But I love you, Helène, and I am not sure that you do not care a little for me.”
She drew her hand away from his tightening clasp.