She could thank him with a woman's for this naive assurance. “I don't doubt you for a moment,” she said. “You have been rather eloquent.”
“Eloquent, my dear!” He raised his eyebrows. “You might spare me congratulations upon my eloquence. I don't deserve very much, perhaps—though God knows I tried to make you comfortable; but perhaps I deserve credit for sincerity.”
She was not to be drawn that way. “I don't doubt your sincerity in the least,” she said. “But I wish you to allow for mine. I am changed, and have told you so.”
“I can see that you are. Heaven knows that. Perhaps I deserve it: I don't know. It's hardly for me to talk about my own points, is it? Criticism, from whichever side it comes, does seem to me out of place in a love-scene. And you found me eloquent in spite of it! Surely I may congratulate myself upon that.”
She looked at him standing before her, his arms folded; she showed him a face too dreary to be moved by sarcasm. “You may congratulate yourself on lots of things, I'm sure.”
Annoyance began to prick him; he showed spirit. “You are tired—and I may have tired you. I won't do that any longer. I think I'll go, if you'll excuse me to your Lady Maria. Sensible lady, that. She goes to sleep....” He took a turn over the room, then came back and stood over her. “I have not had my answer yet. I'll come for it in a few days' time. May I hope you'll have it for me—say, to-day week?”
“What is the question I have to answer?” She looked up for it, though she knew what it was to be quite well.
“Do you wish it repeated?” He was perfectly cool by now. “I'll put it categorically. I have wronged you, and wish to repair my fault: will you allow it? I love you more than before: will you permit me to prove it? I believe that I can make you happy: may I try?”
She had scarcely listened, and when she answered him, did not lift her head. “I can't answer you now, Nevile. Don't ask me.”
“I have not asked you. I have simply put my questions fairly. I will come for my answer next Sunday afternoon. Good-bye, Sanchia.”