“I will come whenever you let me. With me it will always be the same, or more. Sometimes I cannot believe that it is to me this is happening. To me, Gabriel Stanton! What is it you find in me? Sometimes I think it is only your own sweet goodness; that what you expressed in seeing me this time you will find again and again—disappointment; that I am not the man you think me, the man you need.”
“Am I what you thought I would be? Are you satisfied with me?”
“I am overpowered with you.”
She stole a look at him. His close and thin-lipped mouth had curves that were wholly new, his sunken eyes were lit up. She was secretly enraptured with him.
“I thought you very grave and severe when I first came to the office. What did you think of me?”
“What I do now, that you were wonderful. After you left I could not settle to work ... but I have told you this.”
“Tell me again. Why didn’t you say something nice to me then? You were short, sharp, noncommittal. I went away quite downcast, I made sure you did not want my poor little book, that you would write and refuse it, in set businesslike terms.”
“I knew I would not. If George had said no, I should have fought him. I was determined upon that book of Staffordshire Pottery. Were you disappointed with my letter when it came?”
“I loved it. I have always loved your letters. You never disappoint me then.”
Because they had grown more intimate he was able to say to her gently, but with unmistakable feeling: