“Certainly, I should never have thought you such an idealist, such a sensitivist,” said Cecile, softly.
“Have I leave to speak to you like this?”
“Why not?” she asked, to escape the necessity of replying.
“You might perhaps fear that I should compromise you....”
“I do not fear that for an instant!” she replied, haughtily, as in utter contempt of the world.
They were silent for a moment. That delicate, fragile thing, which might so easily break, still hung between them, thin, like a gossamer, lightly joining them together. An atmosphere of embarrassment hovered about them. They felt that the words which had passed between them were full of significance. Cecile waited for him to continue; but, as he was silent, she boldly took up the conversation:
“On the contrary, I value it highly that you have spoken to me like this. You are right: you have indeed given me much of yourself. I want to assure you that whatever you have given me will be quite safe with me. I believe that I understand you better now that I see you better.”
“I want very much to ask you something,” he said, “but I dare not.”
She smiled, to encourage him.
“No, really I dare not,” he repeated.