“The end would repay me.”
“It is a pretty story,” she said, letting her hands fall listlessly into her lap, “but the denouement is a castle in Spain that we should never inhabit. You think your love is strong enough to kill mine first of all; well, I tell you, nothing is strong enough for that. With this fact established the rest is needless to speak of. It is only your dream, Louis; forgive me that I unwittingly intruded into it; reality would mean disillusion,—we are happy only when we dream.”
“You are bitter.”
“Our relations are turned, then; I have put into practice your old theories of the uselessness of life. No; I am wrong. It is better to die than not to have loved.”
“You think you have lived your life, then. I can’t convince you otherwise now; but I am going to beg you to think this over, to try to imagine yourself my wife. I will not hasten your decision, but in a week’s time you should be able to answer me yes or no. If anything can help my cause, I cannot overlook it; so I may tell you now that for some occult reason your mother’s one wish is to see you my wife.”
“And my father?” her voice was harsh now.
“Your father has expressed to your mother that such a course would make him happy.”
She rose suddenly as if oppressed. Her face looked hard to a degree. She stood before him, tall and rigid. He stood up and faced her, reading her face so intently that he straightened himself as if to receive an attack.
“I will consider what you have said,” she said mechanically.
The reaction was so unexpected that he turned giddy and caught on to the back of a chair to steady himself.