"What has my being a good Catholic got to do with your love of me?"
And he watched the small and somewhat severe profile looking across the old grey wall into the flat grey sky.
"I did not say I loved you," she said, almost angrily; "but if I did love you," she said, looking at him tenderly, "and you were religious, I should be loving something eternal. You don't understand what I mean? What I am saying to you must seem like nonsense."
"No, it doesn't, Ellen, only I am content with the reality. I can love you without wings."
He watched for the look of annoyance in her face that he knew his words would provoke, but her face was turned away.
"I like you, but I am afraid of you. It is a very strange feeling. You ran away with a circus and you let the lion die and you went to fight in Cuba. You have loved other women, and I have never loved anyone. I never cared for a man until I saw you, until I looked up from the album."
"I understand very well, Ellen; I knew something was going to happen to me in Ireland."
She turned; he was glad to see her full face again. Her eyes were fixed upon him, but she saw through him, and jealous of her thought he drew her towards him.
"Let us go into the arbour," he said. "I have never been into the arbour of clipped limes with you."
"Why do you want to go into the arbour?"