But she did reply. At first she seemed unable to credit him, but then her face became scarlet and her eyes blazed.
“Love me! And you do this? Yes, sir, insult me by contributing—and through my servant—to my support! If I had not come back unexpectedly but now and found her counting more silver than I knew she could by right possess—if I had not frightened her into a confession—it might have gone on for months.” The Lady stopped abruptly. “How long has it been going on?”
“I tell you that I have no idea.”
“But once, sir, was enough! You insult me with your money, and when I ask you why you do it, you answer that you love me. Love!”
She uttered the concluding word with an intensity of scorn that lashed him. She turned to go, but, as on the occasion of their first meeting, he stepped forward and barred the way.
“You have no right to put that construction on what I say. Our points of view are different.”
“Yes—thank the Holy Saints they are different!”
“I shall try to understand yours; I beg you to try to understand mine.”
Their eyes met again. In his it was impossible for her not to read the truth. Slowly she lowered hers.
“In my country,” she said, more softly now, but still proudly, “love is another sort of thing. In my country I should have said: ‘If you respect me, sir, you perhaps love me; if you do not respect me, it is out of the question that you should love me.’”