“I know what you want to say,” she answered. And she was on the point of adding, “And I know just how you will say it;” but these words she kept back.
“I love you, Gertrude,” he said. “I love you very much; I love you more than ever.”
He said the words just as she had known he would; she had heard them before. They had no charm for her; she had said to herself before that it was very strange. It was supposed to be delightful for a woman to listen to such words; but these seemed to her flat and mechanical. “I wish you would forget that,” she declared.
“How can I—why should I?” he asked.
“I have made you no promise—given you no pledge,” she said, looking at him, with her voice trembling a little.
“You have let me feel that I have an influence over you. You have opened your mind to me.”
“I never opened my mind to you, Mr. Brand!” Gertrude cried, with some vehemence.
“Then you were not so frank as I thought—as we all thought.”
“I don’t see what anyone else had to do with it!” cried the girl.
“I mean your father and your sister. You know it makes them happy to think you will listen to me.”