“I cannot tell what I should do, if you said anything so outrageous!”
“I love you. Is that outrageous and impertinent?”
“N—o. You say it very nicely—almost too nicely. I am afraid you have said it before.”
“Often, though I cannot expect you to remember the exact number of repetitions. How would you say it—if you were obliged to say it? I have a good ear for a tune. I could learn your music.”
“Could you?” Constance hesitated while they paused in their walk and George looked into her eyes.
She saw something there that had not been present when he had first spoken, a year ago. He had seemed cold then, even to her inexperience. Now there was both passion and tenderness in his look, and there was sadness in his face.
“You do love me now,” she said softly. “I can see it.”
“And you, dear—will you not say the little words?”
Again she hesitated. Then she put out her hand and touched his very gently. “I hate you, sir,” she said. But she pronounced the syllables with infinite softness and delicacy, and the music of her voice could not have been more sweet if she had said “I love you, dear.” Then she laughed again.
“I could hear you say that very often, without being hurt,” said George tenderly.