“There is no difference between me and other men,” he answered quickly. And then although he thought she did not know what she was implying, or where the conversation might carry them, he went on even more steadily: “I want to carry out your wishes. If I had the privilege of telling you all that is in my heart....”
“I am admiring your self-control.”
It was true she hardly knew what was impelling her to this reckless mood. “My wishes! What are my wishes? Sometimes one thing and sometimes another. Tonight for instance....”
He was in the corner of the sofa, she on the high fender stool in the firelight. There were only oil lamps in the room, and she and the fireside shone more brightly than they.
When she said softly, “Tonight for instance,” she got up; her eyes seemed to challenge him. He rose too, and would have taken her in his arms, but that she resisted.
“No, no, no, you don’t really want to ... talking is enough for you.”
“You strange Margaret,” he said tenderly.
“I sometimes wonder if you care for me or only for my talk,” she said with a nervous laugh.
“If you only knew.” His arms remained about her.
“If I only knew!” she exclaimed. “Tell me,” she whispered coaxingly.