“Oh yes, a great deal; but it’s more for literature,” said Pansy—“and for conversation. But papa cares also for those things. I think he knows everything.”
Rosier was silent a little. “There’s one thing I’m sure he knows!” he broke out presently. “He knows that when I come here it’s, with all respect to him, with all respect to Mrs. Osmond, who’s so charming—it’s really,” said the young man, “to see you!”
“To see me?” And Pansy raised her vaguely troubled eyes.
“To see you; that’s what I come for,” Rosier repeated, feeling the intoxication of a rupture with authority.
Pansy stood looking at him, simply, intently, openly; a blush was not needed to make her face more modest. “I thought it was for that.”
“And it was not disagreeable to you?”
“I couldn’t tell; I didn’t know. You never told me,” said Pansy.
“I was afraid of offending you.”
“You don’t offend me,” the young girl murmured, smiling as if an angel had kissed her.
“You like me then, Pansy?” Rosier asked very gently, feeling very happy.