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"You twist everything. You are flippant. If Caroline knew you as you really are she would not love you."
"But you love me, in spite of all you know of me?"
She walked quickly but he quickened his pace. She broke into a run.
"You can't keep that up . . . not on these steep paths." He caught her arm.
"Please do not touch me."
"You have commanded too long." He laughed as she would have
wrenched herself free. "You see, it is of no use. If you struggle you will merely become exhausted, and here we are alone. You may call for help and who will come ? Your brave little bandit and the handsome second cousin are far away. And if they did hear you they would find it a different matter rescuing you from me than from the cliff path. You are at my mercy."
"You tell so many lies. ,,
"No. It is you who pretend. You ca
"You say the most cruelly cynical things I have ever heard. I did not know there were people like you."
"How could you? How long have you been in the world? We don't haunt the Convent precincts hoping to seduce holy nuns."
He allowed her to escape and she began to walk on rapidly.
"I wish to be serious," he said, catching up with her and taking her arm. "We have so little opportunity to talk. I am going to London at the end of the week. Ah, that saddens you."
"No. It is a pleasure for me. It is the best news I have heard for a long time."
"The coward in you is delighted, but is that the true Melisande? No! I do not believe it. In reality you are sad. Now there is no need to be sad, only sensible. Tell me, what will you do when you get away from here?"
"That is my affair."
"Let us be sensible and make it mine too."
"I do not see how it can be yours."
"You need to be protected."
"I am able to protect myself."
"When I say you need a protector I use the word in the fashionable sense. You may protect yourself with your wits, but they will tell you that without help they ca
"Please understand that I shall be my own protector."
"How? In the house of some disagreeable woman?"
"Are all women who employ governesses and companions disagreeable?"
"Most are—to their governesses and companions."
"Well, that appears to be my lot in the world and I must bear it."
"So you will be resigned to that state of life to which God has called you?"
"I must make it good."
"It will not be good. It is hateful for a girl of your spirit. It is so undignified. I wish I could marry you. Why weren't you Caroline and Caroline you ? How virtuous I should have been then! I should have been a model wooer. Goodness is a result of circumstances. Has that occurred to you ? I believe that if a marriage between us had been arranged I should have been a faithful husband."
"People become good by adjusting themselves to their circumstances, not by arranging the circumstances to suit themselves. That is the difference between good and bad surely."
"Now, Mademoiselle, you are not the Mother Superior of that Convent of yours, lecturing a miscreant. If the world does not suit me, I must make it suit me. Look, my dear, you are young and inexperienced; you have dogmatic ideas about life. I am being very serious now. Let me find a house for you where you can live discreetly. It shall be secure as a marriage. Everything you want in the world will be yours."
"This is like Satan and his temptations. You think to show me the kingdoms of the world."
"The kingdoms of the world are well worth having."
"At the expense of what one knows to be right?"
"When you have endured the indignities your careless employers will not hesitate to put upon you, when you have suffered at their hands—even been unable to find employment at all—then perhaps you will not despise those kingdoms of comfort. . . and more than comfort ... of affection and friendship as well as passion and all the love I will give you."
"You speak with much persuasion, but you ca
"There is nothing cold-blooded about me. You will, I prophesy, ere long discover that."
She was silent and he went on gently: "Melisande, of what do you think?"
"Of you."
"I knew it. Now that you are in a truthful mood, admit that you think of me continually."
"I think a good deal of you . . . and Caroline. I wish that I had lived more in the world. I wish I could understand you more."
He put his arm about her. "Give yourself time to understand me. Try to cast aside most of what these nuns have taught you of the world. It is all very well for them, living their shut-in lives. What were their lives—living death, mere existence. You don't know what is to be found in the world—what joy, what pleasure. I will
show you. Yes, I am offering you the kingdoms of the world. But you see, my dearest Melisande, life is not the simple thing of black and white that those nuns have painted for you. They believed they were teaching you the truth. They know no other. Poor little cowards . . . afraid of the world! People like you and I should be afraid of nothing."
"But we are both afraid. I am afraid of what I have been taught is sin. You say that you wish they had chosen me to marry you. Then, if you are not afraid, why should you not make your own choice ? You are afraid . . . even as I am. You are afraid of opinion ... of the convention. You are afraid of marrying outside your own social class. That, it seems to me, is more cowardly than being afraid of what one has been taught is sinful."
He was nonplussed for a while. Then he said: "It is not fear. It is the certain knowledge that a marriage between us would be impossible."
"You may dress it up as you like. You can call it certain knowledge. I call it fear, and I call you a coward. You are not afraid to face any man single-handed; you are not afraid of an angry mob. That is because you are big and strong ... in your body. But in your mind you are not strong; and it is in your mind that you are afraid. You are afraid of what people may say and do; you are afraid they will not help you to the position you want. That is a fear. It is a worse fear than being afraid because the body is not strong enough to fight."
"You mistake wisdom for fear."
"Do I? Then please go on being wise . . . and so will I!"
He said: "I've hurt you. I've been too frank. In other words, I've been a fool. I've shown you too much of myself. I don't know why I did it. I ought to have waited ... to have caught you unaware."
"You are too interested in yourself, Monsieur. You think yourself irresistible. That is not the case as far as I am concerned."
He caught her angrily and kissed her. She could not hold him off, but she knew that she did not want to. She was shaken at having to admit to herself that, if he had made his proposals at a time other than when he was pla