“The right of the man who loves you,” he answered, in the same half-fierce, half-bitter way—“who loves you with every fibre of his being; and although he has proved you vain and frivolous and heartless once and again, cannot tear your image from his heart. Do not think I am complaining. I suppose you have a right to please yourself; but sometimes I feel as if no man had ever been treated so abominably as I have been by you.”
“You by me!” she answered, panting in her excitement, “when it was you who left me in a fury, without one word of farewell.”
“I thought I had had my congé pretty distinctly.”
“You had had nothing of the kind—nothing but a few wild confused words from a mere child, frightened and bewildered by happiness and nervousness into the silliest of speeches a silly girl could make at such a moment. But you cannot understand—you never will—you are made of stone, I think.”
He turned upon her quickly.
“I wish I were, sometimes,” he said; “I wish it when I am near you. You make me love you—I am powerless in your hands, and you—you——”
“I love you with all my heart. I have never loved anybody else, and you have behaved cruelly, disgracefully to me always.” The words came all at once in one vehement burst of passion.
He stopped short, wheeled round, and stood facing her. He could only just see her face as they stood thus in the gathering dusk.