"So do I. I hoped you would."
"My dear, I didn't understand one word of it."
"You can't make me believe you loved it then."
He looked at her.
"I loved the sound of your voice, dear."
"Oh," said she coldly, "is that all?"
"Yes," he said, "isn't it enough?"
"I'd rather—" she began and hesitated.
"You'd rather I understood Emerson?"
Her blood flushed in the honey whiteness of her face. She rose, put the book in its place, and left the room.