"You do not mean it, Consuelo," he said earnestly. "You do not mean one hundredth part of what you say."
She drew her fingers from his, and turned her head sideways against the back of the chair so that she could not see him. He still bent over her, whispering into her ear.
"You cannot go," he said. "You will not try to forget—for neither you nor I can—nor ought, cost what it might. You will not destroy what is so much to us—you would not, if you could. Look at me, love—do not turn away. Let me see it all in your eyes, all the truth of it and of every word I say."
Still she turned her face from him. But she breathed quickly with parted lips and the colour rose slowly in her pale cheeks.
"It must be sweet to be loved as I love you, dear," he said, bending still lower and closer to her. "It must be some happiness to know that you are so loved. Is there so much joy in your life that you can despise this? There is none in mine, without you, nor ever can be unless we are always together—always, dear, always, always."
She moved a little, and the drooping lids lifted almost imperceptibly.
"Do not tempt me, dear one," she said in a faint voice. "Let me go—let me go."
Orsino's dark face was close to hers now, and she could see his bright eyes. Once she tried to look away, and could not. Again she tried, lifting her head from the cushioned chair. But his arm went round her neck and her cheek rested upon his shoulder.
"Go, love," he said softly, pressing her more closely. "Go—let us not love each other. It is so easy not to love."
She looked up into his eyes again with a sudden shiver, and they both grew very pale. For ten seconds neither spoke nor moved. Then their lips met.