“No indeed; not to be in earnest would be infamous. I’m paying you the greatest compliment I’m capable of paying any woman. I ask you to be my wife.”
“Why keep up that mockery?” she demanded scornfully.
“It is not a mockery. The past is dead.”
“It is not dead; you have brought it to life. It is becoming intolerable.”
“I know it; therefore I offer to make it tolerable. I have no wish to persecute anyone.”
“Then why do you?”
“Necessity”
“Oh, nonsense!”
“Listen,” he said, with sudden intensity leaning toward her and looking in her eyes, “if I can prove to you that the past is really dead—dead past recall—dead past hope of resurrection—will you marry me?”
She looked at him without shrinking.
“No!” she answered.
“I see what it is,” he said between his teeth; “it is not that I do not awaken an answering chord in you—I do—I can see it—we were set apart for each other. It is not that you do not long to break through this silly English cage which has always hedged you about—I remember that you are really French in every drop of your blood. It is this pink-and-white nonentity who stands between us. You’ve fallen in love with his baby face—but it’s not the love of a woman for a man, it’s the love of a mother for her child. That other love you as yet know nothing of—but it shall be my part to teach it you—my privilege—my great mission—and I shall enjoy the fruits of it. Deep in
