“They are foreign women,” I declared, “and I hate them all.”
“Ah,” she cried in a tremulous voice, “if I could only believe what you tell me is the truth!”
“It is the truth, dearest,” I said, kissing her tears away. “We are parted; but the quiet, even life you live here is far happier and more healthful than one passed in the stifling atmosphere of politics and perfume in which I am compelled to exist. The ladies’ newspapers tell you of the various entertainments in Paris, and describe the gay toilettes and all that kind of thing; but those journals say nothing of the unfortunate diplomatists who are compelled to ruin their digestions and wreck their constitutions by late hours in the service of their country.”
She was silent, and I felt her hand trembling in mine. I looked upon her fair face, and lovingly stroked the dark tendrils of hair from her brow. What she had said had aroused within me some qualms of conscience; but, loving her, I strove to reassure her of my perfect and unwavering fidelity. Women, however, are difficult to deceive. They possess a marvellous instinct where love is concerned, and are able to read their lover’s heart at a glance. No diplomatist, however expert in the art of prevarication, can ever hope to mislead a woman who is in love.
“I often doubt, Gerald, whether you really love me as truly as you have declared,” she said in a low tone, at last. “Perhaps it is because you are absent, and I think of you so much and wonder so often what you are doing.”
“My absence is compulsory,” I answered, adding earnestly: “I love you, Edith, however much you may doubt my protestations.”
“Ah!” she answered, smiling through her tears. “If I could only believe that what you say is true! But it is said that you people at the embassies never speak the truth.”
“To you, dearest, I speak the truth when I say that I love no other woman save yourself. You are mine—you are all the world to me.”
“And yet you have neglected to write to me for ten whole days! The man who really loves is not so forgetful of the object of his affections.” She was piqued at my neglect. Such was the simplicity, the truth, and the loveliness of her character that at first I had not been aware of its complexity, its depth, and its variety. The intensity of passion, the singleness of purpose, and the sweetly confiding nature presented a combination which came near to defying analysis. I now saw in her attitude at this moment the struggle of love against evil destinies and a thorny world; the pain, the anguish, the terror, the despair, and the pang unutterable of parted affection. My heart went out to her.
“But I thought you had forgiven,” I said seriously. “I have come myself to spend a few hours with you. I have come here to repeat my love;” and, bending, I kissed the slim, delicate little hand I held.