His expression brightened, and he dropped on the sofa beside her and laid his head on her shoulder like a tired child, murmuring: “You have come back to me, dear little girl. Smooth those ugly wrinkles from my face. I have longed to feel your hands wandering over my head again.”
“I first loved you because you were unhappy,” said Vivienne composedly; “but it breaks my heart to see you like this.”
“This is a moment of weakness,” he said languidly, “of mental relaxation. This stirring of one’s emotions is a detestable thing; and I have it all the time, I who was born for a tranquil life.”
“Tell me all your troubles,” whispered Vivienne in his ear, “everything, everything.”
“No,” he said unexpectedly. “No,” and suddenly straightening himself he took her in his arms. He was a strong man again, and Vivienne fluttered a little in his grasp, blushing in deep perplexity and wonder.
“Do you wish to go away?” he asked.
“No,” she said; “not if you will do as I wish.”
“And you wish to be mother confessor?”
“Yes; give me the history of your life, your inner life.”
“Well—I love you,” he said.