She does not answer.
A feeling a little rebellious creeps up in her heart. It is hard—so hard—to be doubted like this, when she has so bravely cast from her all sentiment for her old lover—when she is “really and earnestly caring” for this man.
“You can’t answer for yourself, Zai!” he exclaims angrily. “Or perhaps you won’t answer?”
Still she does not say a word, but hides her face against his arm.
So he moves away from her and faces her, his arms crossed over his chest, and speaks slowly and deliberately:
“Zai, when you know that a man is hungering and thirsting for a word of reassurance—when you must feel that it kills me to be in uncertainty of your real feeling you keep that word locked up in your bosom—you put a seal on your lips—you are thinking what a happier fate would have been yours as Conway’s wife.”
The suddenness of these last words sends a thrill through her, and involuntarily she starts.
“Delaval, Mr. Conway is probably a married man by this time, and I really think you forget that I am just going to be your wife.”
“Will you always remember you are my wife?” he asks.
“I am not likely ever to let the fact escape my notice,” she answers gravely. “Mr. Conway is nothing to me but an acquaintance; as far as love is concerned, he and I are as far removed from one another as if he or I were dead.”