“It would be after all a way of thinking of me, and I have a reason for wishing you to do that.”
“I remember very well that you used to have a reason for everything. It was not always a good one.”
“This one is excellent,” said Bernard, gravely. “I have been in love with you for three years.”
She got up slowly, turning away.
“Is that what you wished to say to me?”
She went toward the open window, and he followed her.
“I hope it does n’t offend you. I don’t say it lightly—it ‘s not a piece of gallantry. It ‘s the very truth of my being. I did n’t know it till lately—strange as that may seem. I loved you long before I knew it—before I ventured or presumed to know it. I was thinking of you when I seemed to myself to be thinking of other things. It is very strange—there are things in it I don’t understand. I travelled over the world, I tried to interest, to divert myself; but at bottom it was a perfect failure. To see you again—that was what I wanted. When I saw you last month at Blanquais I knew it; then everything became clear. It was the answer to the riddle. I wished to read it very clearly—I wished to be sure; therefore I did n’t follow you immediately. I questioned my heart—I cross-questioned it. It has borne the examination, and now I am sure. I am very sure. I love you as my life—I beg you to listen to me!”
She had listened—she had listened intently, looking straight out of the window and without moving.
“You have seen very little of me,” she said, presently, turning her illuminated eye on him.
“I have seen enough,” Bernard added, smiling. “You must remember that at Baden I saw a good deal of you.”