"Dear," she whispered, "I only want to do the best for you. Let me try in my own way. It's all for you—everything I do or think or wish or hope is for you. Even I myself was made merely for you."
Sideways on the arm of his chair, she stooped down, laying her cheek against his, drawing his face closer.
"I am so hopelessly in love with you," she murmured; "if I make mistakes, forgive me; remember only that it is because I love you enough to die for you very willingly."
He drew her down into his arms. She was never quick to respond to the deeper emotions in him, but her cheeks and throat were flushed now, and, as his embrace enclosed her, she responded with a sudden flash of blind passion—a moment's impulsive self-surrender to his lips and arms—and drew away from him dazed, trembling, shielding her face with one arm.
All that the swift contact was awakening in him turned on her fiercely now; in his arms again she swayed, breathless, covering her face with desperate hands, striving to comprehend, to steady her senses, to reason while pulses and heart beat wildly and every vein ran fire.
"No—" she stammered—"this is—is wrong—wrong! Louis, I beg you, to remember what I am to you…. Don't kiss me again—I ask you not to—I pray that you won't…. We are—I am—engaged to you, dear…. Oh—it is wrong—wrong, now!—all wrong between us!"
"Valerie," he stammered, "you care nothing for any law—nor do I—now—"
"I do! You don't understand me! Let me go. Louis—you don't love me enough…. This—this is madness—wickedness!—you can't love me! You don't—you can't!"
"I do love you, Valerie—"
"No—no—or you would let me go!—or you would not kiss me again—"