"What sort of good-bye do you imagine I will let you say, now that you've returned? That tree shall be to us a family chronicle. The first important date's inscribed on it; the others shall follow; they'll be so many. But the trunk's of a generous size. We'll find room on it for all. That's the date on which I first loved you. What's the date on which you first loved me?"
"I have not said I ever loved you."
"No; but you do."
"Yes; I do. Now I know that I do. No, you must not touch me."
"No need to draw yourself away; I do not mean to, yet. Some happinesses are all the sweeter for being a little postponed. And when did the knowledge first come to you? We must have the date upon the tree."
"That you never shall. Such tales are not for trees to tell, even if I knew, which I don't. I'm afraid to think; it's all so horrible."
"Love is horrible? I think not."
"But I know. You don't understand--I do."
"My dear, I think it is you who do not understand."
"Nor must you call me your dear; for that I shall never be."