Paul had been in London a week. He was determined to find Launa, to make her love him. It was only that one day she had been different. Her words, her look had been as if he were an outcast, a glance of loathing she had thrown at him. He remembered it always, but he loved her, longed for her intensely; and now he was determined to know what she had meant when she said she felt outraged. He had no reason to suppose she could care for him. Indeed, her absence from Canada, her rebuke the day after he had shot the horse, all showed that she did not love him. Yet she had not always seemed to hate him. Love and hate are closely connected, and he would know what she really felt, because he could not live without her. He had tried the North-West big game shooting; he had rushed madly about, and cried for madder music, stronger wine to help him forget; and through it all she was there.
Now these detestable people said untrue things about her; nevertheless he shuddered slightly as he remembered what they had insinuated.
He drove back to the Metropolis and walked past Victoria Mansions. Then he went in. He saw her name on the doorpost, and boldly marched up the stairs, disdaining the porter’s suggestion of the lift. Outside her door he could hear her playing and singing:
“Long is it I have loved thee,
Thee shall I love alway,
My dearest;
Long is it I have loved thee,
Thee shall I love alway.”
It was a Canadian song, he knew it well. He whistled it softly as he went down the stairs. Outside it was cold and beginning to rain. He did not feel it.
“Long is it I have loved thee.”