'Oh no! I did it to kill time. You must remember that a week is something like a year to a man who is waiting impatiently.'
She dropped her eyes.
'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. But I never thought you very impatient. You always seemed to take things philosophically.'
'I generally try to.'
There was a pause. Alma, leaning forward in her chair, kept her eyes down, and did not raise them when she again spoke.
'You have surprised and perplexed and worried me. I thought in a week's time I should know what to say, but—Doesn't it strike you, Mr. Rolfe, that we're in a strange position towards each other? You know very little of me—very little indeed, I'm sure. And of you, when I come to think of it, all I really know is that you hardly care at all for what has always been my one great interest.'
'That is putting it in a matter-of-fact way—or you think so. I see things rather differently. In one sense, I care very much indeed for everything that really makes a part of your life. And simply because I care very much about you yourself. I don't know you; who knows any other human being? But I have formed an idea of you, and an idea that has great power over my thoughts, wishes, purposes—everything. It has made me say what I thought I should never say to any woman—and makes me feel glad that I have said it, and full of hope.'
Alma drew in her breath and smiled faintly. Still she did not look at him.
'And of course I have formed an idea of you.'
'Will you sketch the outline and let me correct it?'