Her reproaches passed by me unheeded. They only heightened her color; they only added a new rapture to the luxury of looking at her.
“If you loved me as faithfully as I love you,” I said, “you would understand why I am here. No sacrifice is too great if it brings me into your presence again after two years of absence.”
She suddenly approached me, and fixed her eyes in eager scrutiny on my face.
“There must be some mistake,” she said. “You cannot possibly have received my letter, or you have not read it?”
“I have received it, and I have read it.”
“And Van Brandt’s letter—you have read that too?”
“Yes.”
She sat down by the table, and, leaning her arms on it, covered her face with her hands. My answers seemed not only to have distressed, but to have perplexed her. “Are men all alike?” I heard her say. “I thought I might trust in his sense of what was due to himself and of what was compassionate toward me.”
I closed the door and seated myself by her side. She removed her hands from her face when she felt me near her. She looked at me with a cold and steady surprise.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.