“What, you expect to take my love by storm, in reality, as you did, in appearance, a week ago?” She had risen from the music seat, and now stood with her back against the spinet, her hands behind her, her head turned slightly upward, facing him.
“I don’t expect,” said he. “I only hope.”
“And what gives you reason to hope?”
“My own love for you. Love elicits love, they say.”
“They say wrong, then. If that were true, there would be no unrequited lovers.”
“Ay, but such love as mine,—how can it so fill me to overflowing, and not infect you?”
“Love is not an infectious disease. If it were, I should have no fear,—knowing myself love-proof.”
“I can’t believe that,—for a woman with no spark in herself could not light so fierce a flame in me, by the mere meeting of our eyes.”
“If it should create in me such a disturbance as you seem to undergo, I shouldn’t wish it to increase. But, I assure you, it isn’t in me.”