She really did not know, at this moment.
"When you said you wanted never to marry me," he replied, with a childish simplicity.
"But why did that hurt you so?" she said. "You needn't mind everything I say so particularly."
"I don't know—I didn't want to do it," he said, humbly, ashamed.
She pressed his hand warmly. They sat close together, watching the soldiers go by with their sweethearts, the lights trailing in myriads down the great thoroughfares that beat on the edge of the park.
"I didn't know you cared so much," she said, also humbly.
"I didn't," he said. "I was knocked over myself.—But I care—all the world."
His voice was so quiet and colourless, it made her heart go pale with fear.
"My love!" she said, drawing near to him. But she spoke out of fear, not out of love.
"I care all the world—I care for nothing else—neither in life nor in death," he said, in the same steady, colourless voice of essential truth.
"Than for what?" she murmured duskily.
"Than for you—to be with me."
And again she was afraid. Was she to be conquered by this? She cowered close to him, very close to him. They sat perfectly still, listening to the great, heavy, beating sound of the town, the murmur of lovers going by, the footsteps of soldiers.
She shivered against him.
"You are cold?" he said.
"A little."
"We will go and have some supper."
He was now always quiet and decided and remote, very beautiful. He seemed to have some strange, cold power over her.
They went to a restaurant, and drank chianti. But his pale, wan look did not go away.
"Don't leave me to-night," he said at length, looking at her, pleading. He was so strange and impersonal, she was afraid.
"But the people of my place," she said, quivering.
"I will explain to them—they know we are engaged."
She sat pale and mute. He waited.
