"Would you do it? Yes or no?"
"No, my dear."
She turned her back on him and was furious.
"You do not love me. You do not know what love is."
"That is quite possible," he said good-humoredly. He knew that, like anybody else, he was capable in a moment of passion of committing some folly, perhaps something dishonest, and—who knows?—even more: but he would have thought shame of himself if he had boasted of it in cold blood, and certainly it would be dangerous to confess it to Ada. Some instinct warmed him that the beloved foe was lying in ambush, and taking stock of his smallest remark; he would not give her any weapon against him.
She would return to the charge again, and ask him:
"Do you love me because you love me, or because I love you?"
"Because I love you."
"Then if I did not love you, you would still love me?"
"Yes."