She arched her eyebrows; “Then we have made some mistake. This will never be you, in that case.”
“Oh, yes, it is I. It is the other fellow, the gabbler, who is not myself,” he contrived to tell her.
“You lead a double life, like the villain in the play?” she suggested.
“You must have your laugh at my expense; have it, and welcome. But I know what I know,” he said.
“What do you know?” she asked quickly.
“I know that I am in love with you,” he answered.
“Oh, only that,” she said, with an air of relief.
“Only that. But that is a great deal. I know that I love you—oh, yes, unutterably. If you could see yourself! You are absolutely unique among women. I would never have believed it possible for any woman to make me feel what you have made me feel. I have never spoken like this to any woman in all my life. Oh, you may laugh. It is the truth, upon my word of honour. If you could look into your eyes—yes, even when you are laughing at me! I can see your wonderful burning spirit shining deep, deep in your eyes. You do not dream how different you are to other women. You are a wonderful burning poem. They are platitudes. Oh, I love you unutterably. There has not been an hour since I last saw you that I have not thought of you, loved you, longed for you. And now here you stand, you yourself, beside me! If you could see into my heart, if you could see what I feel!”
She looked at the moon, with a strange little smile, and was silent.
“Will you not speak to me?” he cried.