“He thinks you—let me begin by telling you this—very, very lovable and a dear little mother to your boys. But he thinks also that you are incapable of growing very fond of any one; he looks upon you as a woman without passion and melancholy for no reason, except that you are bored. He thinks you bore yourself!”
She looked at him in utter dismay and saw him laughing mischievously.
“I am never bored!” she said, joining in his laughter, with full conviction.
“No, of course you’re not!” he replied.
“How can you know?” she asked.
“I feel it!” he answered. “And, what is more, I know that the basis of your character is not melancholy, not dark, but, on the contrary, very light.”
“I am not so sure of that myself,” she scarcely murmured, slackly, with that weakness within her, but happy that he should estimate her so exactly. “And do you too,” she continued, airily, “think me incapable of loving any one very much?”
“Now that is a matter of which I am not competent to judge,” he said, with such frankness that his whole countenance suddenly grew younger and the crease disappeared from his forehead. “How can I tell?”
“You seem to know a great deal about me otherwise,” she laughed.
“I have seen you so often.”