He avoided looking into them for that very
reason. He forgot himself in the contemplation of those passive arms, of
these defenceless lips, and--yes, one had to go back to them--of these
wide-open eyes. Something wild in their grey stare made him think of
sea-birds in the cold murkiness of high latitudes. He started when she
spoke, all the charm of physical intimacy revealed suddenly in that
voice.
"You should try to love me!" she said.
He made a movement of astonishment.
"Try," he muttered. "But it seems to me--" He broke off, saying to
himself that if he loved her, he had never told her so in so many words.
Simple words! They died on his lips. "What makes you say that?" he
asked.
She lowered her eyelids and turned her head a little.
"I have done nothing," she said in a low voice. "It's you who have been
good, helpful, and tender to me. Perhaps you love me for that--just
for that; or perhaps you love me for company, and because--well! But
sometimes it seems to me that you can never love me for myself, only
for myself, as people do love each other when it is to be for ever."
Her head drooped. "Forever," she breathed out again; then, still more
faintly, she added an entreating: "Do try!"
These last words went straight to his heart--the sound of them more than
the sense. He did not know what to say, either from want of practice in
dealing with women or simply from his innate honesty of thought.
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