“I love you.” He began to draw her from behind the chair.
“Monsieur, Monsieur!” she, cried, genuinely alarmed; “do not forget that you are a gentleman.”
“I am not a gentleman now; I am a man who loves.”
Madame was now aware that what she had aroused could not be subdued by angry words.
“Monsieur, you say that you love me; do not degrade me by forcing me into your arms. I am a woman, and weak, and you are hurting me.”
He let go her hands, and they stood there, breathing deeply and quickly. But for her it was a respite. She had been too precipitate. She brought together the subtle forces of her mind. She could gain nothing by force; she must use cunning. To hold him at arm's length, and yet to hold him, was her desire. She had reckoned on wax; a man stood before her. All at once the flutter of admiration stirred in her heart. She was a soldier's daughter, the daughter of a man who loved strong men. And this man was doubly strong because he was fearless and honest. She read in his eyes that a moment more and he had kissed her, a thing no man save her father had ever done.
“O, Monsieur,” she said lightly, “you soldiers are such forward lovers! You have not even asked me if I love you.” He made a move to regain her hands. “No, no!” darting behind the chair. “You must not take my hands; you do not realize how strong you are. I am not sure that my heart responds to yours.”
“Tell me, what must I do?” leaning across the chair.
“You must have patience. A woman must be wooed her own way, or not at all. What a whirlwind you are!”
“I would to heaven,” with a gesture indicative of despair, “that you had kept me behind bars and closed doors.” He dropped his hands from the chair and sought the window, leaning his arms against the central frame.