If, indeed, there was a certain poetic quality in what he said, there was a deeper poetry still in the tenderness and sweetness of his voice. He sat in front of her, gazing into her face, as if he could not tear himself from that contemplation. She sometimes lowered her eyes, sometimes turned them away, sometimes fixed them upon a page of Adolphe, which she had kept in her hands. If his gaze embarrassed her, however, his soft voice seemed to calm her nerves. She listened to it, scarcely understanding his words, as one listens to a vague pleasant music.
"Doesn't it bore you to wait?" she asked.
"I am never bored here. When I have this lovely sight before my eyes."
"What sight?" she inquired, ingenuously.
"Your person, my dear lady."
"But you can't always be looking at me," she said, laughing, trying to turn the conversation to a jest.
"That's a fatal misfortune, as they say in novels. I should like to pass my whole life near to you. Instead, I'm obliged to pass it among a lot of people who are utterly indifferent to me. A great misfortune!"
"It's not your fault," she said, with a faint smile.
"It certainly isn't. But that doesn't console me. Shall we try it—passing our lives together? One can overcome misfortunes. Our whole lives—that will mean many years."
"But I am married," she said, feeling that the talk was becoming dangerous.