Bazilio approached her, his lips firmly closed; but Luiza retreated.
“Go away! What do you want? Go away! Why do you remain here? Leave me!” she cried.
Bazilio, in tender accents, said he did not understand why she should be angry. A kiss! What was a kiss? What had she fancied? It was true that he adored her, but with a pure love.
“I swear it to you,” he said, laying his hand upon his heart.
He made her sit down on the sofa, and then sat down beside her, and began to reason with her. He would be resigned; circumstances demanded it from him. They would be friends, as if they were brother and sister, nothing more.
Luiza listened, unable to resist his persuasive accents.
It was true, he said, that his love for her was a torture to him; but he was strong, and he would control himself. All he desired was to see her, to speak to her. Theirs should be an ideal love.
As he spoke thus, he devoured her with his eyes. He took her hand in his, bent over it, and pressed a kiss upon the palm.
Luiza rose, trembling, and said, “No; leave me!”
“Very well; good-by!”