“If you know, will you then permit me to say it?”
“Yes, for, if it is what I think, it is nothing that you are not entitled to ask.”
“And yet it would be a great favour.... But let me warn you beforehand that I look upon myself as some one of a much lower order than you.”
A shadow passed across her face, her mouth had a little contraction of pain and she pressed him, a little unnerved:
“I beg you, ask. Just ask me simply.”
“It is a wish, then, that sympathy might be sealed between you and me. Would you allow me to come to you when I am unhappy? I always feel so happy in your presence, so soothed, so different from the state of ordinary life, for with you I live only my better, my real self: you know what I mean.”
Everything within her again melted into weakness and slackness; he was placing her upon too high a pedestal; she was happy, because of what he asked her, but sad, that he felt himself so much lower than she.
“Very well,” she said, nevertheless, with a clear voice. “It shall be as you wish. Let us seal a bond of sympathy.”
And she gave him her hand, her beautiful, long, white hand, where on one white finger gleamed the sparks of jewels, white and blue. For a second, very reverently, he pressed her finger-tips between his own:
“Thank you,” he said, in a hushed voice, a voice that was a little broken.