Constance, confusedly.—"I—I don't know"—
Bartlett.—"Ah, you thought I did! I don't. I was indulging in a sort of modulated howling which I flatter myself is at least one peculiarity that's entirely my own. I was baying the landscape merely for my private amusement, and I'd not have done it, if I'd known you were in hearing. However, if it's helped to settle the fact one way or other, concerning any little idiosyncrasy of mine, I shan't regret it. I hope not to disappoint you in anything, by-and-by." He drops his hands from the door-posts and steps into the room, while Constance, in shrinking abeyance, stands trembling at his harshness.
Constance, in faltering reproach.—"Mr. Bartlett!"
Bartlett.—"Constance!"
Constance, struggling to assert herself, but breaking feebly in her attempt at hauteur.—"Constance? What does this mean, Mr. Bartlett?"
Bartlett, with a sudden burst.—"What does it mean? It means that I'm sick of this nightmare masquerade. It means that I want to be something to you—all the world to you—in and for myself. It means that I can't play another man's part any longer and live. It means that I love you, love you, love you, Constance!" He starts involuntarily toward her with outstretched arms, from which she recoils with a convulsive cry.
Constance.—"You love me? Me? Oh, no, no! How can you be so merciless as to talk to me of love?" She drops her glowing face into her hands.
Bartlett.—"Because I'm a man. Because love is more than mercy—better, higher, wiser. Listen to me, Constance!—yes, I will call you so now if never again: you are so dear to me that I must say it at last if it killed you. If loving you is cruel, I'm pitiless! Give me some hope, tell me to breathe, my girl!"
Constance.—"Oh go, while I can still forgive you."
Bartlett.—"I won't go; I won't have your forgiveness; I will have all or nothing; I want your love!"