“Angry?” she answered. “What for? No.”
“And you believe me?” he went on.
“In what you wrote?”
“Yes.”
Gemma’s head sank, and she said nothing. The parasol slipped out of her hands. She hastily caught it before it dropped on the path.
“Ah, believe me! believe what I wrote to you!” cried Sanin; all his timidity suddenly vanished, he spoke with heat; “if there is truth on earth—sacred, absolute truth—it’s that I love, love you passionately, Gemma.”
She flung him a sideway, momentary glance, and again almost dropped the parasol.
“Believe me! believe me!” he repeated. He besought her, held out his hands to her, and did not dare to touch her. “What do you want me to do … to convince you?”
She glanced at him again.
“Tell me, Monsieur Dimitri,” she began; “the day before yesterday, when you came to talk to me, you did not, I imagine, know then … did not feel …”