She stirred, looking at him with almost fear in her eyes.
“After all”—unsteadily—“this is my room; I’ll have to ask you to go.”
But he stumbled towards her, knelt down by the couch, burying his head in her lap, clasping his arms round her waist.
“And I love you—I love you; the humiliation of it—I adore you. Don’t—don’t—just a minute let me stay here—just a moment in a whole life—Elsa! Elsa!”
She leant back and pressed her head into the pillows.
Then his muffled voice: “I feel like a savage. I want your whole body. I want to carry you away to a cave and love you until I kill you—you can’t understand how a man feels. I kill myself when I see you—I’m sick of my own strength that turns in upon itself, and dies, and rises new born like a Phœnix out of the ashes of that horrible death. Love me just this once, tell me a lie, say that you do—you are always lying.”
Instead, she pushed him away—frightened.
“Get up,” she said; “suppose the servant came in with the tea?”
“Oh, ye gods!” He stumbled to his feet and stood staring down at her.
“You’re rotten to the core and so am I. But you’re heathenishly beautiful.”