"Where is it?"
"Here."
Slowly--very slowly--something soft touched my sleeve. I caught it, I held it fast, I covered it up.
Poor thing! Poor thing!
And at the same time a kind of--I might call it "sacred fire" if I wanted to be sentimental--took possession of me. In my hour of need, I found beautiful, warm, comforting words to say to her.
"You see, Iolanthe," I said, "you are now my wife. There's no changing that. And, after all, you wanted it yourself. But you mustn't suppose I shall bother you with all sorts of amorous ways and make demands. It is a true friend who is sitting here beside you--I may say a fatherly friend, if you can get any comfort out of that--because I haven't the least idea of trying to disguise the fact that I am much older than you. So, my dear, if your heart is heavy and if you want to cry to your heart's content, you'll never find a breast on which you can rest more securely. Always come to me for refuge, just come to me even if you do feel that I am the enemy from whom you are seeking refuge."
That was very nicely said, wasn't it? It was inspired by my sympathy and by my pure unqualified good will.
Poor old me! As if a little bit of youthful fervour were not worth a thousand times more than the deepest sympathy and all that. But at the moment the impression of what I said was so strong that I myself was frightened.
With one bound she was out of her corner, with her arms round my neck, kissing my face through her veil and saying between sobs:
"Forgive me--forgive me, you dear, dear man."