“But that was it,” I persisted. “Don't you see? It was your happiness, the thought that you were unhappy which brought me here. I know—you told your aunt how unhappy you had been when you were with these people before. I know how much you disliked them. That was why I came. To ask you to give this up as you did the other. To come with us and BE happy. I want you to come, Frances. Think! Think how much I must want you.”
And, for the moment I thought this appeal had some effect. It seemed to me that her resolution was shaken, that she was wavering.
“You—you really want me?” she repeated.
“Yes. Yes, I can't tell you—I must not tell you how much I want you. And your aunt—she wants you to come. She is here, too. She will tell you.”
Her manner changed once more. The tone in which she spoke was different. There were no signs of the wavering which I had noticed—or hoped I noticed.
“No,” she said. “No. I shall not see my aunt. And I must not talk with you any longer. I asked you not to follow me here. You did it, in spite of my asking. Now, unless you wish to drive me away from here, as you did from Paris, you will leave me and not try to see me again. Oh, don't you see—CAN'T you see how miserable you are making me? And yet you talk of my happiness!”
“But you aren't happy here. ARE you happy?”
“I am happy enough. Yes, I am happy.”
“I don't believe it. Are these Crippses kind to you?”
“Yes.”