She made him sit down beside her.
"What is it, Louise? Tell me—quickly. Remember, I've been all day in suspense," he said, as seconds passed and she did not speak.
"You got my note then?"
"What is it?—what did you mean?"
"Just a little patience, Maurice. You take one's breath away. You want to know everything at once. I sent for you because—oh, because ... I want you to let us go on being friends."
"Is that all?" he cried, and his face fell. "When I have told you again and again that's just what I can't do?"
She smiled. "I wish I had known you as a boy, Maurice—oh, but as quite a young boy!" she said in such a changed voice that he glanced up in surprise. Whether it was the look she bent on him, or her voice, or her words, he did not know; but something emboldened him to do what he had often done in fancy: he slid to his knees before her, and laid his head on her lap. She began to smooth back his hair, and each time her hand came forward, she let it rest for a moment.—She wondered how he would look when he knew.
"You can't care for me, I know. But I would give my life to make you happy."
"Why do you love me?" She experienced a new pleasure in postponing his knowing, postponing it indefinitely.
"How can I say? All I know is how I love you—and how I have suffered."