"You love me too much," he said in a low voice, half oppressed, half excited by her words, for men are difficult to content. The love of women given in excess of their demand embarrasses and maybe chills them; and Edgar had a sudden misgiving, discomposing if quite natural, which appeared, as it were, to check him like a horse in mid-career and throw him back on himself disagreeably. He asked himself doubtfully, Should he be able to answer this intense love so as to make the balance even between them? He loved her dearly, passionately—better than he had ever loved any woman of the many before—but he did not love her like this: he knew that well enough.
"I cannot love you too much," said Leam. "You are my life, and you are so great."
"And you will never tire of me?"
She looked into his face, her beautiful eyes worshiping him. "Do we tire of the sun?" she answered.
"Where did you get all your pretty fancies from, my darling?" he cried. "You have developed into a poet as well as a Psyche."
"Have I? If I have developed into anything, it is because I love you," she answered, with her sweet pathetic smile.
"But, my Leam, sweetheart—"
"Ah," she interrupted him with a look of passionate delight, "how I like to hear you call me that! Mamma used to call me her heart. No one else has since—I would not let any one if they had wanted—till now you."
"And you are my heart," he answered fervently—"the heart of my heart, my very life!"
"Am I?" she smiled. "And you are mine."