“She would take any legitimate means to help me,” said Hubert. “You cannot resent that. Ah, Hadria, why will you not listen to me?” He bent forward, covering his face with his hands in deep dejection. His hope had begun to wane.
“You know what I think,” said Hadria. “You know how I should act if I married. Surely that ought to cure you of all——.”
He seized her hand.
“No, no, nothing that you may think could cure me of the hope of making you my wife. I care for what you are, not for what you think. You know how little I cling to the popular version of the domestic story. I have told you over and over again that it offends me in a thousand ways. I hate the bourgeois element in it. What have we really to disagree about?”
He managed to be very convincing. He shewed that for a woman, life in her father’s house is far less free than in her own home; that existence could be moulded to any shape she pleased. If Hadria hesitated only on this account her last reason was gone. It was not fair to him. He had been patient. He had kept silence for many months. But he could endure the suspense no longer. He took her hand. Then suddenly she rose.
“No, no. I can’t, I can’t,” she cried desperately.
“I will not listen to denial,” he said following her. “I cannot stand a second disappointment. You have allowed me to hope.”
“How? When? Never!” she exclaimed.
“Ah, yes, Hadria. I am older than you and I have more experience. Do you think a man will cease to hope while he continues to see the woman he loves?”
Hadria turned very pale.