He was timid, and women, whether old or young, do not like timidity. It was not that he lacked either force or courage by nature, nor any of those qualities whereby women are won. But the life he had led had kept him younger than he believed himself to be, and his solitary existence had given his ideal of Constance the opportunity of developing more quickly than the reality. He loved her, it is true, but as yet in a peaceful, unruffled way, which partook more of boundless admiration than of passion. An older man would have recognised the difference in himself. The girl’s finer perceptions were aware of it without comprehending it in the least. Nevertheless it was an immense satisfaction to George to speak out the words which in his heart had so long been written as a motto about the shrine of his imagination.
Constance said nothing in answer, but rose, after a moment’s pause, and went and stood before the fireplace, now filled with ferns and plants, for the weather was already warm. She turned her back upon George and seemed to be looking at the things that stood on the chimney-piece. George rose, too, and came and stood beside her, trying to see her face.
“Are you angry?” he asked softly. “Have I offended you?”
“No, I am not angry,” she answered. “But—but—was there any use in saying it?”
“You do not love me at all? You do not care whether I come or go?”
She pitied him, for his disappointment was genuine, and she knew that he suffered something, though it might not be very much.
“I do not know what love is,” she said thoughtfully. “Yes—I care. I like to see you—I am interested in what you do—I should be sorry never to see you again—but I do not feel—what is it one should feel, when one loves?”
“Is there any one—any man—whom you like better than you like me?”
“No,” she answered with some hesitation, “I do not think there is.”
“And there is a chance that you may like me better still—that you may some day even love me?”