"What more is there than our confidence in each other and our content?"
she said.
And, as he did not respond: "I wonder if you realise how perfectly
lovely you have been to me since you have come into my life? Do you? Do
you remember the first day--the very first--how I sent word to you that
I wished you to see my first real dinner gown? Smile if you wish--Ah,
but you don't, you _don't_ understand, my poor friend, how much you
became to me in that little interview. . . . Men's kindness is a strange
thing; they may try and try, and a girl may know they are trying and, in
her turn, try to be grateful. But it is all effort on both sides.
Then--with a word--an impulse born of chance or instinct--a man may say
and do that which a woman can never forget--and would not if she could."
"Have I done--that?"
"Yes. Didn't you understand? Do you suppose any other man in the world
could have what you have had of me--of my real self? Do you suppose for
one instant that any other man than you could ever obtain from me the
confidence I offer you unasked? Do I not tell you everything that enters
my head and heart? Do you not know that I care for you more than for
anybody alive?"
"Gerald--"
She looked him straight in the eyes; her breath caught, but she steadied
her voice:
"I've got to be truthful," she said; "I care for you more than for
Gerald.
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