of anything else, and you are quite right to wish me to go away. But if I must go, there is no harm in my letting myself out for a single moment, is there? If you are really hurt—if he hurts you—nothing I say will hurt you. When I tell you I love you, it's simply what I came for. I thought it was for something else: but it was for that. I shouldn't say it if I didn't believe I should never see you again. It's the last time—let me pluck a single flower! I have no right to say that, I know; and you have no right to listen. But you don't listen; you never listen, you are always thinking of something else. After this I must go, of course; so I shall at least have a reason. Your asking me is no reason, not a real one. I can't judge by your husband," he went on, irrelevantly, almost incoherently, "I don't understand him; he tells me you adore each other. Why does he tell me that? What business is it of mine? When I say that to you, you look strange. But you always look strange. Yes, you have something to hide. It's none of my business—very true. But I love you," said Caspar Goodwood.
As he said, she looked strange. She turned her eyes to the door by which they had entered, and raised her fan as if in warning.
"You have behaved so well; don't spoil it," she said, softly.
"No one hears me. It's wonderful what you tried to put me off with. I love you as I have never loved you."
"I know it. I knew it as soon as you consented to go."
"You can't help it—of course not. You would if you could, but you can't, unfortunately. Unfortunately for me, I mean. I ask nothing—nothing, that is, that I shouldn't. But I do ask one sole satisfaction—that you tell me—that you tell me———"
"That I tell you what?"
Whether I may pity you."
