"I know it." He drew a deep breath. "Louise! ... if only you could care a little!"
There was silence after these words, but not a silence of conclusion; both knew now that more must follow. He raised his head, and looked into her eyes.
"Can you not see how I love you—and how I suffer?"
It was a statement rather than a question, but he was not aware of this: he was only amazed that, after all, he should be able to speak so quietly, in such an even tone of voice.
There was another pause of suspense; his words seemed like balls of down that he had tossed into the still air: they sank, lingeringly, without haste; and she stood, and let them descend on her. His haggard eyes hung on her face; and, as he watched, he saw a change come over it: the enmity that had been in it, a few seconds back, died out; the lips softened and relaxed; and when the eyes were raised to his again, they were kind, full of pity.
"I'm sorry. Poor boy ... poor Maurice."
She seemed to hesitate; then, with one of her frankest gestures, held out her hand. At its touch, soft and living, he forgot everything: plans and resolutions, hopes and despairs, happiness and unhappiness no longer existed for him; he knew only that she was sorry for him, that some swift change in her had made her sympathise and understand. He looked down, with dim eyes, at the sweet, pale face, now alight with compassion then, with disarming abruptness, he took her head between his hands, and kissed her, repeatedly, whereever his lips chanced to fall—on the warm mouth, the closed eyes, temples, and hair.
He was gone before she recovered from her surprise. She had instinctively stemmed her hands against his shoulders; but, when she was alone, she stood just as he left her, her eyes still shut, letting the sensation subside, of rough, unexpected kisses. She had been taken unawares; her heart was beating. For a moment or two, she remained in the same attitude; then she passed her hand over her face. "That was foolish of him ... very," she said. She looked down at herself and saw her hands. She stretched them out before her, with a sudden sense of emptiness.
"If I could care! Yes—if I could only care!"
At two o'clock that morning, Maurice wrote: