“Yet you have had many admirers, Elsie,” said Magnus.
“Have I?” she asked.
“Oh, Elsie, you know that you have.”
“I try not to know it.”
“Why, dearest?”
“Because I wish I was an Eastern bride for you. Oh, yes! I wish that I had been reared in conventual seclusion, that no man’s eye had seen me until my husband came to claim me; that, then, I could have gone apart from the world and seen only him. That would have been exquisite; that would have been blissful; for I do not want admiration; I want only your heart’s approval! There would be such intense and concentrated joy in knowing only you. My joy would be diluted if my heart were divided among many.”
“But your numerous admirers, dearest?”
“Oh, my numerous admirers! I did not finesse when I asked you if I really had any; for, in truth, my ‘admirers’ never came near enough to me to breathe their admiration.”
“Why was that? How was that? Tell me.”
“Look in my eyes, love, and read your answer there. Peruse my heart, love. It lies open to you as a book.”