"That's more foolish still," said Gertrude, with her eyes still on the moon. And then, suddenly and somewhat impatiently transferring them to her companion's face, "Richard," she asked, "what do you mean when you say you adore me?"
"Mean? I mean that I love you."
"Then, why don't you say what you mean?"
The young man looked at her a moment. "Will you give me leave," he asked, "to say all that I mean?"
"Of course." Then, as he remained silent, "I listen," added Gertrude.
Yet he still said nothing, but went striking vehemently at the weeds by the water's edge, like one who may easily burst into tears of rage.
"Gertrude!" he suddenly exclaimed, "what more do you want than the assurance that I love you?"
"I want nothing more. That assurance is by itself delightful enough. You yourself seemed to wish to add something more."
"Either you won't understand me," cried Richard, "or"—flagrantly vicious for twenty seconds—"you can't!"
Miss Whittaker stopped and looked thoughtfully into his face. "In our position," she said, "if it becomes you to sacrifice reflection to feeling, it becomes me to do the reverse. Listen to me, Richard. I do understand you, and better, I fancy, than you understand yourself."