The Making of a Saint

by W. Somerset Maugham

'I am sorry,' I answered humbly. 'I wanted to surprise you.'

She did not answer, but raised her eyebrows, slightly shrugging her shoulders. I wondered whether something had arisen to vex her. I knew she had a quick temper, but I did not mind it; a cross word was so soon followed by a look of repentance and a word of love. I passed my hand over her beautiful soft hair. The frown came again, and she turned her head away.

'Giulia,' I said, 'what is it?' I took her hand; she withdrew it immediately.

'Nothing,' she answered.

'Why do you turn away from me and withdraw your hand?'

'Why should I not turn away from you and withdraw my hand?'

'Don't you love me, Giulia?'

She gave a sigh, and pretended to look bored. I looked at her, pained at heart and wondering.

'Giulia, my dear, tell me what it is. You are making me very unhappy.'

'Oh, don't I tell you, nothing, nothing, nothing!'