“I don’t know. I don’t quite know. I have been so excited, restless. I have not wanted any one else. It is difficult for me to know myself. Are you still sorry for me, like you were in London?”
“My heart goes out to you. You have suffered, but you have great compensations; great gifts. I would sympathise with you, but you make me feel my own limitations. I fear to fail you. You have the happier nature, the wider vision....”
“Then you have not been happy?”
“Yes, I have, inexpressibly happy. I wish I could tell you. But I matter so little in comparison with you.”
“I don’t want you to be humble.”
“I am not humble, I am proud.”
“Because?”
“Because you have taken me for your friend.”
He never touched her whilst she sat there at his feet, but his eyes never left her and his voice was deep and tender. They talked of friendship, all the time, they only spoke of friendship. And he was unsure of himself, or of her, more deeply shy than she, and moved, though less able to express it.
“Next week you will come again. Will it be the same between us?”