“Don’t,” she said, “don’t,” putting out her hand. There was aversion in her voice.
“What, don’t love you? That is impossible. I beg you, I pray you to give me your love. Trust me, help me.”
“My love. Oh! love—what is it? Listen, I cannot tell you what I feel. . . . I do not love you. I am at peace when I am with you—I trust you; that is all.”
“And you will always.” He took her hand and kissed it. “My beautiful lady, you are mine, mine. How can I be glad enough?”
“Don’t be . . . anything.”
“Do you love me?”
“I trust you. I do not want you to kiss me.”
He laughed a little.
“What is love?” she asked.
“Madness.”