So we started upon the Chapter.
Her hands were not so red I noticed. I am becoming sensitive to what is called "atmosphere" I suppose, for I felt all the currents in the room were disturbed—that ambience of serenity did not surround Alathea and keep me unconsciously in awe of her as it always has before—I was aware that my natural emotions were running riot and that my one eye was gazing at her with love in it, and that my imagination was conjuring up scenes of delight with her as a companion. Her want of complete control allowed the waves to reach her, I expect—for I knew that she was using all her will to keep her attention upon the work, and that she was nearly as disturbed as I was myself—.
But how was she disturbed?—was she just nervous from events—or was I causing her any personal trouble? The moment I felt that perhaps I was, a feeling of assurance and triumph came over me—! Then I used every bit of the cunning I possess—I tried to say subtle things—I made her talk about the ridiculous book, and the utterly unimportant furniture—I made her express her opinion about styles, and got out of her that a simple Queen Anne was what she herself preferred.—I knew that she was giving way and talking with less stiffness because she was weak with sorrow, and probably had not had much sleep—I knew that it was not because she had forgotten about the Suzette cheque or really was more friendly. I knew that I was taking an unfair advantage of her—but I continued—Men are really brutes after all!—and gloried in my power every time the slightest indication showed that I possessed it! I lost some of my diffidence—If I could only have stood upon two feet and seen with two eyes—I know that even the morning would have ended by my taking her in my arms, cost what might; but as I was glued to my chair she was enabled always at this stage to stay out of reach—and fenced gallantly with me by silence and stiff answers—but by luncheon time there was a distinct gain on my side—I had made her feel something, I no longer was a nonentity who did not count—.
Her skin is so transparent that the colour fluctuates with every emotion. I love to watch it. What a mercy that I had very strong sight!—for my one eye sees quite clearly.
At luncheon we talked of the time of the Fronde—Alathea is so wonderfully well read. I make dashes into all sorts of subjects, and find she knows more of them than I do myself—What a mind she must have to have acquired all this in her short twenty-three years.
"You are not thinking of leaving Paris, I hope when you move," I said as we drank coffee. "I am going to begin another book directly this one is finished."
"It is not yet decided," she answered abruptly.
"I could not write without you."
Silence.
"I would love to think that you took an interest in teaching me how to be an author—."