IV
“I don’t understand you,” said Ladislaw, in a deeply injured voice. “You’ll trust your whole life to me, and yet—”
The little wood was dark and unfamiliar, and he found it very disagreeable to hurry along at the pace she set.
“And yet you behave—” he went on.
“I’m not trusting my whole life to you,” replied Ethel vehemently. “I’d be sorry to think there was nothing better than that to trust in!”
“That’s not quite the way to talk to the man you’re going to marry, is it?” he asked. “I’ve always tried my best to do what you wanted. I don’t see why you shouldn’t trust me.”
“I don’t see, either, Lad,” Ethel answered, with her discounting frankness. “Only somehow you seem so—so dreadfully strange to me. I never understand you. I know you must be fond of me, or you wouldn’t have asked me to marry you; and I know it’s a sensible, practical idea if we’re going on tour. But I can’t—I can’t—” She choked down a sob. “I can’t feel—friendly—with you!”
“I don’t want you to. I want you to love me.”
“But they ought to go together!” she cried. “I’m awfully grateful to you, and I love to hear you sing, but I’m afraid! Oh, it’s not fair to you, because I know I’ll never feel like that!”
“You will some day,” he answered, with a patience that frightened her still more.