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Chapter 11

  • Since that visit paid by the Baroness Munster to Mrs. Acton, of which som_ccount was given at an earlier stage of this narrative, the intercours_etween these two ladies had been neither frequent nor intimate. It was no_hat Mrs. Acton had failed to appreciate Madame M; auunster's charms; on th_ontrary, her perception of the graces of manner and conversation of he_rilliant visitor had been only too acute. Mrs. Acton was, as they said i_oston, very "intense," and her impressions were apt to be too many for her.
  • The state of her health required the restriction of emotion; and this is why, receiving, as she sat in her eternal arm-chair, very few visitors, even of th_oberest local type, she had been obliged to limit the number of he_nterviews with a lady whose costume and manner recalled to he_magination—Mrs. Acton's imagination was a marvel—all that she had ever rea_f the most stirring historical periods. But she had sent the Baroness a grea_any quaintly-worded messages and a great many nosegays from her garden an_askets of beautiful fruit. Felix had eaten the fruit, and the Baroness ha_rranged the flowers and returned the baskets and the messages. On the da_hat followed that rainy Sunday of which mention has been made, Eugeni_etermined to go and pay the beneficent invalid a "visite d'adieux;" so it wa_hat, to herself, she qualified her enterprise. It may be noted that neithe_n the Sunday evening nor on the Monday morning had she received that expecte_isit from Robert Acton. To his own consciousness, evidently he was "keepin_way;" and as the Baroness, on her side, was keeping away from her uncle's, whither, for several days, Felix had been the unembarrassed bearer o_pologies and regrets for absence, chance had not taken the cards from th_ands of design. Mr. Wentworth and his daughters had respected Eugenia'_eclusion; certain intervals of mysterious retirement appeared to them, vaguely, a natural part of the graceful, rhythmic movement of so remarkable _ife. Gertrude especially held these periods in honor; she wondered wha_adame M; auunster did at such times, but she would not have permitted hersel_o inquire too curiously.
  • The long rain had freshened the air, and twelve hours' brilliant sunshine ha_ried the roads; so that the Baroness, in the late afternoon, proposing t_alk to Mrs. Acton's, exposed herself to no great discomfort. As with he_harming undulating step she moved along the clean, grassy margin of the road, beneath the thickly-hanging boughs of the orchards, through the quiet of th_our and place and the rich maturity of the summer, she was even conscious o_ sort of luxurious melancholy. The Baroness had the amiable weakness o_ttaching herself to places—even when she had begun with a little aversion; and now, with the prospect of departure, she felt tenderly toward this well- wooded corner of the Western world, where the sunsets were so beautiful an_ne's ambitions were so pure. Mrs. Acton was able to receive her; but o_ntering this lady's large, freshly-scented room the Baroness saw that she wa_ooking very ill. She was wonderfully white and transparent, and, in he_lowered arm-chair, she made no attempt to move. But she flushed a little—lik_ young girl, the Baroness thought—and she rested her clear, smiling eyes upo_hose of her visitor. Her voice was low and monotonous, like a voice that ha_ever expressed any human passions.
  • "I have come to bid you good-by," said Eugenia. "I shall soon be going away."
  • "When are you going away?"
  • "Very soon—any day."
  • "I am very sorry," said Mrs. Acton. "I hoped you would stay—always."
  • "Always?" Eugenia demanded.
  • "Well, I mean a long time," said Mrs. Acton, in her sweet, feeble tone. "The_ell me you are so comfortable—that you have got such a beautiful littl_ouse."
  • Eugenia stared—that is, she smiled; she thought of her poor little chalet an_he wondered whether her hostess were jesting. "Yes, my house is exquisite,"
  • she said; "though not to be compared to yours."
  • "And my son is so fond of going to see you," Mrs. Acton added. "I am afraid m_on will miss you."
  • "Ah, dear madame," said Eugenia, with a little laugh, "I can't stay in Americ_or your son!"
  • "Don't you like America?"
  • The Baroness looked at the front of her dress. "If I liked it—that would no_e staying for your son!"
  • Mrs. Acton gazed at her with her grave, tender eyes, as if she had not quit_nderstood. The Baroness at last found something irritating in the sweet, sof_tare of her hostess; and if one were not bound to be merciful to grea_nvalids she would almost have taken the liberty of pronouncing her, mentally, a fool. "I am afraid, then, I shall never see you again," said Mrs. Acton.
  • "You know I am dying."
  • "Ah, dear madame," murmured Eugenia.
  • "I want to leave my children cheerful and happy. My daughter will probabl_arry her cousin."
  • "Two such interesting young people," said the Baroness, vaguely. She was no_hinking of Clifford Wentworth.
  • "I feel so tranquil about my end," Mrs. Acton went on. "It is coming s_asily, so surely." And she paused, with her mild gaze always on Eugenia's.
  • The Baroness hated to be reminded of death; but even in its imminence, so fa_s Mrs. Acton was concerned, she preserved her good manners. "Ah, madame, yo_re too charming an invalid," she rejoined.
  • But the delicacy of this rejoinder was apparently lost upon her hostess, wh_ent on in her low, reasonable voice. "I want to leave my children bright an_omfortable. You seem to me all so happy here—just as you are. So I wish yo_ould stay. It would be so pleasant for Robert."
  • Eugenia wondered what she meant by its being pleasant for Robert; but she fel_hat she would never know what such a woman as that meant. She got up; she wa_fraid Mrs. Acton would tell her again that she was dying. "Good-by, dea_adame," she said. "I must remember that your strength is precious."
  • Mrs. Acton took her hand and held it a moment. "Well, you have been happ_ere, have n't you? And you like us all, don't you? I wish you would stay,"
  • she added, "in your beautiful little house."
  • She had told Eugenia that her waiting-woman would be in the hall, to show he_own-stairs; but the large landing outside her door was empty, and Eugeni_tood there looking about. She felt irritated; the dying lady had not "la mai_eureuse." She passed slowly down-stairs, still looking about. The broa_taircase made a great bend, and in the angle was a high window, lookin_estward, with a deep bench, covered with a row of flowering plants in curiou_ld pots of blue china-ware. The yellow afternoon light came in through th_lowers and flickered a little on the white wainscots. Eugenia paused _oment; the house was perfectly still, save for the ticking, somewhere, of _reat clock. The lower hall stretched away at the foot of the stairs, hal_overed over with a large Oriental rug. Eugenia lingered a little, noticing _reat many things. "Comme c'est bien!" she said to herself; such a large, solid, irreproachable basis of existence the place seemed to her to indicate.
  • And then she reflected that Mrs. Acton was soon to withdraw from it. Th_eflection accompanied her the rest of the way down-stairs, where she pause_gain, making more observations. The hall was extremely broad, and on eithe_ide of the front door was a wide, deeply-set window, which threw the shadow_f everything back into the house. There were high-backed chairs along th_all and big Eastern vases upon tables, and, on either side, a large cabine_ith a glass front and little curiosities within, dimly gleaming. The door_ere open—into the darkened parlor, the library, the dining-room. All thes_ooms seemed empty. Eugenia passed along, and stopped a moment on th_hreshold of each. "Comme c'est bien!" she murmured again; she had thought o_ust such a house as this when she decided to come to America. She opened th_ront door for herself—her light tread had summoned none of the servants—an_n the threshold she gave a last look. Outside, she was still in the humor fo_urious contemplation; so instead of going directly down the little drive, t_he gate, she wandered away towards the garden, which lay to the right of th_ouse. She had not gone many yards over the grass before she paused quickly; she perceived a gentleman stretched upon the level verdure, beneath a tree. H_ad not heard her coming, and he lay motionless, flat on his back, with hi_ands clasped under his head, staring up at the sky; so that the Baroness wa_ble to reflect, at her leisure, upon the question of his identity. It wa_hat of a person who had lately been much in her thoughts; but her firs_mpulse, nevertheless, was to turn away; the last thing she desired was t_ave the air of coming in quest of Robert Acton. The gentleman on the grass, however, gave her no time to decide; he could not long remain unconscious o_o agreeable a presence. He rolled back his eyes, stared, gave an exclamation, and then jumped up. He stood an instant, looking at her.
  • "Excuse my ridiculous position," he said.
  • "I have just now no sense of the ridiculous. But, in case you have, don'_magine I came to see you."
  • "Take care," rejoined Acton, "how you put it into my head! I was thinking o_ou."
  • "The occupation of extreme leisure!" said the Baroness. "To think of a woma_hen you are in that position is no compliment."
  • "I did n't say I was thinking well!" Acton affirmed, smiling.
  • She looked at him, and then she turned away.
  • "Though I did n't come to see you," she said, "remember at least that I a_ithin your gates."
  • "I am delighted—I am honored! Won't you come into the house?"
  • "I have just come out of it. I have been calling upon your mother. I have bee_idding her farewell."
  • "Farewell?" Acton demanded.
  • "I am going away," said the Baroness. And she turned away again, as if t_llustrate her meaning.
  • "When are you going?" asked Acton, standing a moment in his place. But th_aroness made no answer, and he followed her.
  • "I came this way to look at your garden," she said, walking back to the gate, over the grass. "But I must go."
  • "Let me at least go with you." He went with her, and they said nothing til_hey reached the gate. It was open, and they looked down the road which wa_arkened over with long bosky shadows. "Must you go straight home?" Acto_sked.
  • But she made no answer. She said, after a moment, "Why have you not been t_ee me?" He said nothing, and then she went on, "Why don't you answer me?"
  • "I am trying to invent an answer," Acton confessed.
  • "Have you none ready?"
  • "None that I can tell you," he said. "But let me walk with you now."
  • "You may do as you like."
  • She moved slowly along the road, and Acton went with her. Presently he said,
  • "If I had done as I liked I would have come to see you several times."
  • "Is that invented?" asked Eugenia.
  • "No, that is natural. I stayed away because"—
  • "Ah, here comes the reason, then!"
  • "Because I wanted to think about you."
  • "Because you wanted to lie down!" said the Baroness. "I have seen you li_own—almost—in my drawing-room."
  • Acton stopped in the road, with a movement which seemed to beg her to linger _ittle. She paused, and he looked at her awhile; he thought her very charming.
  • "You are jesting," he said; "but if you are really going away it is ver_erious."
  • "If I stay," and she gave a little laugh, "it is more serious still!"
  • "When shall you go?"
  • "As soon as possible."
  • "And why?"
  • "Why should I stay?"
  • "Because we all admire you so."
  • "That is not a reason. I am admired also in Europe." And she began to wal_omeward again.
  • "What could I say to keep you?" asked Acton. He wanted to keep her, and it wa_ fact that he had been thinking of her for a week. He was in love with he_ow; he was conscious of that, or he thought he was; and the only questio_ith him was whether he could trust her.
  • "What you can say to keep me?" she repeated. "As I want very much to go it i_ot in my interest to tell you. Besides, I can't imagine."
  • He went on with her in silence; he was much more affected by what she had tol_im than appeared. Ever since that evening of his return from Newport he_mage had had a terrible power to trouble him. What Clifford Wentworth ha_old him—that had affected him, too, in an adverse sense; but it had no_iberated him from the discomfort of a charm of which his intelligence wa_mpatient. "She is not honest, she is not honest," he kept murmuring t_imself. That is what he had been saying to the summer sky, ten minute_efore. Unfortunately, he was unable to say it finally, definitively; and no_hat he was near her it seemed to matter wonderfully little. "She is a woma_ho will lie," he had said to himself. Now, as he went along, he reminde_imself of this observation; but it failed to frighten him as it had don_efore. He almost wished he could make her lie and then convict her of it, s_hat he might see how he should like that. He kept thinking of this as h_alked by her side, while she moved forward with her light, graceful dignity.
  • He had sat with her before; he had driven with her; but he had never walke_ith her.
  • "By Jove, how comme il faut she is!" he said, as he observed her sidewise.
  • When they reached the cottage in the orchard she passed into the gate withou_sking him to follow; but she turned round, as he stood there, to bid hi_ood-night.
  • "I asked you a question the other night which you never answered," he said.
  • "Have you sent off that document—liberating yourself?"
  • She hesitated for a single moment—very naturally. Then, "Yes," she said, simply.
  • He turned away; he wondered whether that would do for his lie. But he saw he_gain that evening, for the Baroness reappeared at her uncle's. He had littl_alk with her, however; two gentlemen had driven out from Boston, in a buggy, to call upon Mr. Wentworth and his daughters, and Madame Munster was an objec_f absorbing interest to both of the visitors. One of them, indeed, sai_othing to her; he only sat and watched with intense gravity, and leane_orward solemnly, presenting his ear (a very large one), as if he were deaf, whenever she dropped an observation. He had evidently been impressed with th_dea of her misfortunes and reverses: he never smiled. His companion adopted _ighter, easier style; sat as near as possible to Madame Munster; attempted t_raw her out, and proposed every few moments a new topic of conversation.
  • Eugenia was less vividly responsive than usual and had less to say than, fro_er brilliant reputation, her interlocutor expected, upon the relative merit_f European and American institutions; but she was inaccessible to Rober_cton, who roamed about the piazza with his hands in his pockets, listenin_or the grating sound of the buggy from Boston, as it should be brought roun_o the side-door. But he listened in vain, and at last he lost patience. Hi_ister came to him and begged him to take her home, and he presently went of_ith her. Eugenia observed him leaving the house with Lizzie; in her presen_ood the fact seemed a contribution to her irritated conviction that he ha_everal precious qualities. "Even that mal-elevee little girl," she reflected,
  • "makes him do what she wishes."
  • She had been sitting just within one of the long windows that opened upon th_iazza; but very soon after Acton had gone away she got up abruptly, just whe_he talkative gentleman from Boston was asking her what she thought of the
  • "moral tone" of that city. On the piazza she encountered Clifford Wentworth, coming round from the other side of the house. She stopped him; she told hi_he wished to speak to him.
  • "Why did n't you go home with your cousin?" she asked.
  • Clifford stared. "Why, Robert has taken her," he said.
  • "Exactly so. But you don't usually leave that to him."
  • "Oh," said Clifford, "I want to see those fellows start off. They don't kno_ow to drive."
  • "It is not, then, that you have quarreled with your cousin?"
  • Clifford reflected a moment, and then with a simplicity which had, for th_aroness, a singularly baffling quality, "Oh, no; we have made up!" he said.
  • She looked at him for some moments; but Clifford had begun to be afraid of th_aroness's looks, and he endeavored, now, to shift himself out of their range.
  • "Why do you never come to see me any more?" she asked. "Have I displease_ou?"
  • "Displeased me? Well, I guess not!" said Clifford, with a laugh.
  • "Why have n't you come, then?"
  • "Well, because I am afraid of getting shut up in that back room."
  • Eugenia kept looking at him. "I should think you would like that."
  • "Like it!" cried Clifford.
  • "I should, if I were a young man calling upon a charming woman."
  • "A charming woman is n't much use to me when I am shut up in that back room!"
  • "I am afraid I am not of much use to you anywhere!" said Madame M; auunster.
  • "And yet you know how I have offered to be."
  • "Well," observed Clifford, by way of response, "there comes the buggy."
  • "Never mind the buggy. Do you know I am going away?"
  • "Do you mean now?"
  • "I mean in a few days. I leave this place."
  • "You are going back to Europe?"
  • "To Europe, where you are to come and see me."
  • "Oh, yes, I 'll come out there," said Clifford.
  • "But before that," Eugenia declared, "you must come and see me here."
  • "Well, I shall keep clear of that back room!" rejoined her simple youn_insman.
  • The Baroness was silent a moment. "Yes, you must come frankly—boldly. Tha_ill be very much better. I see that now."
  • "I see it!" said Clifford. And then, in an instant, "What 's the matter wit_hat buggy?" His practiced ear had apparently detected an unnatural creak i_he wheels of the light vehicle which had been brought to the portico, and h_urried away to investigate so grave an anomaly.
  • The Baroness walked homeward, alone, in the starlight, asking herself _uestion. Was she to have gained nothing—was she to have gained nothing?
  • Gertrude Wentworth had held a silent place in the little circle gathered abou_he two gentlemen from Boston. She was not interested in the visitors; she wa_atching Madame Munster, as she constantly watched her. She knew that Eugeni_lso was not interested—that she was bored; and Gertrude was absorbed in stud_f the problem how, in spite of her indifference and her absent attention, sh_anaged to have such a charming manner. That was the manner Gertrude woul_ave liked to have; she determined to cultivate it, and she wished that—t_ive her the charm—she might in future very often be bored. While she wa_ngaged in these researches, Felix Young was looking for Charlotte, to whom h_ad something to say. For some time, now, he had had something to say t_harlotte, and this evening his sense of the propriety of holding some specia_onversation with her had reached the motive-point—resolved itself into acut_nd delightful desire. He wandered through the empty rooms on the larg_round-floor of the house, and found her at last in a small apartmen_enominated, for reasons not immediately apparent, Mr. Wentworth's "office:"
  • an extremely neat and well-dusted room, with an array of law-books, in time- darkened sheep-skin, on one of the walls; a large map of the United States o_he other, flanked on either side by an old steel engraving of one o_aphael's Madonnas; and on the third several glass cases containing specimen_f butterflies and beetles. Charlotte was sitting by a lamp, embroidering _lipper. Felix did not ask for whom the slipper was destined; he saw it wa_ery large.
  • He moved a chair toward her and sat down, smiling as usual, but, at first, no_peaking. She watched him, with her needle poised, and with a certain shy, fluttered look which she always wore when he approached her. There wa_omething in Felix's manner that quickened her modesty, her self- consciousness; if absolute choice had been given her she would have preferre_ever to find herself alone with him; and in fact, though she thought him _ost brilliant, distinguished, and well-meaning person, she had exercised _uch larger amount of tremulous tact than he had ever suspected, to circumven_he accident of tete-a-tete. Poor Charlotte could have given no account of th_atter that would not have seemed unjust both to herself and to her foreig_insman; she could only have said—or rather, she would never have said it—tha_he did not like so much gentleman's society at once. She was not reassured, accordingly, when he began, emphasizing his words with a kind of admirin_adiance, "My dear cousin, I am enchanted at finding you alone."
  • "I am very often alone," Charlotte observed. Then she quickly added, "I don'_ean I am lonely!"
  • "So clever a woman as you is never lonely," said Felix. "You have company i_our beautiful work." And he glanced at the big slipper.
  • "I like to work," declared Charlotte, simply.
  • "So do I!" said her companion. "And I like to idle too. But it is not to idl_hat I have come in search of you. I want to tell you something ver_articular."
  • "Well," murmured Charlotte; "of course, if you must"—
  • "My dear cousin," said Felix, "it 's nothing that a young lady may not liste_o. At least I suppose it is n't. But voyons; you shall judge. I am terribl_n love."
  • "Well, Felix," began Miss Wentworth, gravely. But her very gravity appeared t_heck the development of her phrase.
  • "I am in love with your sister; but in love, Charlotte—in love!" the young ma_ursued. Charlotte had laid her work in her lap; her hands were tightly folde_n top of it; she was staring at the carpet. "In short, I 'm in love, dea_ady," said Felix. "Now I want you to help me."
  • "To help you?" asked Charlotte, with a tremor.
  • "I don't mean with Gertrude; she and I have a perfect understanding; and oh, how well she understands one! I mean with your father and with the world i_eneral, including Mr. Brand."
  • "Poor Mr. Brand!" said Charlotte, slowly, but with a simplicity which made i_vident to Felix that the young minister had not repeated to Miss Wentwort_he talk that had lately occurred between them.
  • "Ah, now, don't say 'poor' Mr. Brand! I don't pity Mr. Brand at all. But _ity your father a little, and I don't want to displease him. Therefore, yo_ee, I want you to plead for me. You don't think me very shabby, eh?"
  • "Shabby?" exclaimed Charlotte softly, for whom Felix represented the mos_olished and iridescent qualities of mankind.
  • "I don't mean in my appearance," rejoined Felix, laughing; for Charlotte wa_ooking at his boots. "I mean in my conduct. You don't think it 's an abuse o_ospitality?"
  • "To—to care for Gertrude?" asked Charlotte.
  • "To have really expressed one's self. Because I have expressed myself, Charlotte; I must tell you the whole truth—I have! Of course I want to marr_er—and here is the difficulty. I held off as long as I could; but she is suc_ terribly fascinating person! She 's a strange creature, Charlotte; I don'_elieve you really know her." Charlotte took up her tapestry again, and agai_he laid it down. "I know your father has had higher views," Felix continued;
  • "and I think you have shared them. You have wanted to marry her to Mr. Brand."
  • "Oh, no," said Charlotte, very earnestly. "Mr. Brand has always admired her.
  • But we did not want anything of that kind."
  • Felix stared. "Surely, marriage was what you proposed."
  • "Yes; but we did n't wish to force her."
  • "A la bonne heure! That 's very unsafe you know. With these arranged marriage_here is often the deuce to pay."
  • "Oh, Felix," said Charlotte, "we did n't want to 'arrange.'"
  • "I am delighted to hear that. Because in such cases—even when the woman is _horoughly good creature—she can't help looking for a compensation. A charmin_ellow comes along—and voila!" Charlotte sat mutely staring at the floor, an_elix presently added, "Do go on with your slipper, I like to see you work."
  • Charlotte took up her variegated canvas, and began to draw vague blue stitche_n a big round rose. "If Gertrude is so—so strange," she said, "why do yo_ant to marry her?"
  • "Ah, that 's it, dear Charlotte! I like strange women; I always have like_hem. Ask Eugenia! And Gertrude is wonderful; she says the most beautifu_hings!"
  • Charlotte looked at him, almost for the first time, as if her meaning require_o be severely pointed. "You have a great influence over her."
  • "Yes—and no!" said Felix. "I had at first, I think; but now it is six of on_nd half-a-dozen of the other; it is reciprocal. She affects me strongly—fo_he is so strong. I don't believe you know her; it 's a beautiful nature."
  • "Oh, yes, Felix; I have always thought Gertrude's nature beautiful."
  • "Well, if you think so now," cried the young man, "wait and see! She 's _olded flower. Let me pluck her from the parent tree and you will see he_xpand. I 'm sure you will enjoy it."
  • "I don't understand you," murmured Charlotte. "I can't, Felix."
  • "Well, you can understand this—that I beg you to say a good word for me t_our father. He regards me, I naturally believe, as a very light fellow, _ohemian, an irregular character. Tell him I am not all this; if I ever was, _ave forgotten it. I am fond of pleasure—yes; but of innocent pleasure. Pai_s all one; but in pleasure, you know, there are tremendous distinctions. Sa_o him that Gertrude is a folded flower and that I am a serious man!"
  • Charlotte got up from her chair slowly rolling up her work. "We know you ar_ery kind to every one, Felix," she said. "But we are extremely sorry for Mr.
  • Brand."
  • "Of course you are—you especially! Because," added Felix hastily, "you are _oman. But I don't pity him. It ought to be enough for any man that you tak_n interest in him."
  • "It is not enough for Mr. Brand," said Charlotte, simply. And she stood ther_ moment, as if waiting conscientiously for anything more that Felix migh_ave to say.
  • "Mr. Brand is not so keen about his marriage as he was," he presently said.
  • "He is afraid of your sister. He begins to think she is wicked."
  • Charlotte looked at him now with beautiful, appealing eyes—eyes into which h_aw the tears rising. "Oh, Felix, Felix," she cried, "what have you done t_er?"
  • "I think she was asleep; I have waked her up!"
  • But Charlotte, apparently, was really crying, she walked straight out of th_oom. And Felix, standing there and meditating, had the apparent brutality t_ake satisfaction in her tears.
  • Late that night Gertrude, silent and serious, came to him in the garden; i_as a kind of appointment. Gertrude seemed to like appointments. She plucked _andful of heliotrope and stuck it into the front of her dress, but she sai_othing. They walked together along one of the paths, and Felix looked at th_reat, square, hospitable house, massing itself vaguely in the starlight, wit_ll its windows darkened.
  • "I have a little of a bad conscience," he said. "I ought n't to meet you thi_ay till I have got your father's consent."
  • Gertrude looked at him for some time. "I don't understand you."
  • "You very often say that," he said. "Considering how little we understand eac_ther, it is a wonder how well we get on!"
  • "We have done nothing but meet since you came here—but meet alone. The firs_ime I ever saw you we were alone," Gertrude went on. "What is the differenc_ow? Is it because it is at night?"
  • "The difference, Gertrude," said Felix, stopping in the path, "the differenc_s that I love you more—more than before!" And then they stood there, talking, in the warm stillness and in front of the closed dark house. "I have bee_alking to Charlotte—been trying to bespeak her interest with your father. Sh_as a kind of sublime perversity; was ever a woman so bent upon cutting of_er own head?"
  • "You are too careful," said Gertrude; "you are too diplomatic."
  • "Well," cried the young man, "I did n't come here to make any one unhappy!"
  • Gertrude looked round her awhile in the odorous darkness. "I will do anythin_ou please," she said.
  • "For instance?" asked Felix, smiling.
  • "I will go away. I will do anything you please."
  • Felix looked at her in solemn admiration. "Yes, we will go away," he said.
  • "But we will make peace first."
  • Gertrude looked about her again, and then she broke out, passionately, "Why d_hey try to make one feel guilty? Why do they make it so difficult? Why can'_hey understand?"
  • "I will make them understand!" said Felix. He drew her hand into his arm, an_hey wandered about in the garden, talking, for an hour.