CONFIDENCE
"Ah, you admit it," cried Bernard, with a sort of quick elation.
She had been pale, but she suddenly blushed.
"Your own conduct was singular, as I remember it; it was not exactly agreeable."
"Perhaps not; but at least it was meant to be. I didn't know how to please you then, and I am far from supposing that I have learned now. But I entreat you to give me a chance."
Angela's eyes wandered over the great prospect of Paris.
"Do you know how you can please me now?" she said at last. "By leaving me alone."
Bernard looked at her a moment, then came straight back into the drawing-room and took his hat.
"You see I avail myself of the first chance. But I shall come back to-morrow."
"I am greatly obliged to you for what you have said. Such a speech as that deserves some consideration. You may come back to-morrow," Angela added.
On the morrow, when he came back, she received him alone.
"How did you know, at Baden, that I didn't like you?" he asked, as soon as she would allow him.
She smiled very gently.
"You assured me yesterday that you did like me."
"I mean that I supposed I didn't. How did you know that?"
"I can only say that I observed."
"You must have observed very closely; for, superficially, I rather had the air of admiring you," said Bernard.
"It was very superficial."
"You don't mean that, for, after all, that is just what my admiration, my interest in you, were not. They were deep, they were latent. They were not superficial—they were subterranean."
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