My relations with Blanca were more than love; they were delirium, madness, fanaticism, call it what you will. Every day my passion for her increased, and the morrow seemed to open up vistas of new happiness. And yet I could not avoid feeling at times a mysterious, indefinable fear. And this I knew she felt as well as I did. We both feared to lose one another. One day I said to Blanca:
"We must marry, as quickly as possible."
She gave me a strange look. "You wish to marry me?"
"Yes, Blanca," I said, "I am proud of you. I want to show you to the whole world. I love you and I want you, pure, noble, and saintly as you are."
"I cannot marry you," answered this incomprehensible woman. She would never give a reason.
Finally my leave of absence expired, and I told her that on the following day we must separate.
"Separate? It is impossible!" she exclaimed. "I love you too much for that."
"But you know, Blanca, that I worship you."
"Then give up your profession. I am rich. We will live our lives out together," she said, putting her soft hand over my mouth to prevent my answer.
I kissed the hand and then, gently removing it, I answered: "I would accept this offer from my wife, although it would be a sacrifice for me to give up my career; but I will not accept it from a woman who refuses to marry me."