we have had. Now I am delightfully tired, longing for sleep—for sleep and dreams.
I LIVE in eternal restlessness. Every day drives me along in a whirl of fear and devil-me-carishness, heaven-blue joy, and black despair. Whither will it lead? What do I wish, and what will he do with me?
But through it all I hear the terrifying and ever-returning cry: 'Does he love you? or is he only a little bit more in love with you than with any other young girl he meets on his way?'
I was with him again yesterday. I had hoped he would say something which would make me understand him better. But he was just the same dear, gentle and bewilderingly sweet being, but, at the same time, so absolutely passive, so reticent, so elusive.
Yet I tried to break through his reserve a little, and asked: 'What did you really think of me the day you got my letter?'
'I thought it was from a lady who was in love with me,' he answered most calmly.
'But when you heard it was only a wager, what did you think?'
He looked smilingly at me before he answered: 'Well, to be perfectly frank, I did not believe it for a moment.'
'Then you thought all the same I was in love with you?'
