“Very much,—­years ago, when you were a boy.”

“But not since?  If it be so, I had better go.  Love on one side only is a poor affair at best.”

“A very poor affair.”

“It is better to bear anything than to try and make out life with that.  Some of you women never want to love any one.”

“That was what I was saying of myself to Laura but the other day.  With some women it is so easy.  With others it is so difficult, that perhaps it never comes to them.”

“And with you?”

“Oh, with me—.  But it is better in these matters to confine oneself to generalities.  If you please, I will not describe myself personally.  Were I to do so, doubtless I should do it falsely.”

“You love no one else, Violet?”

“That is my affair, my lord.”

“By heavens, and it is mine too.  Tell me that you do, and I will go away and leave you at once.  I will not ask his name, and I will trouble you no more.  If it is not so, and if it is possible that you should forgive me—­”

“Forgive you!  When have I been angry with you?”

“Answer me my question, Violet.”

“I will not answer you your question,—­not that one.”

“What question will you answer?”

“Any that may concern yourself and myself.  None that may concern other people.”

“You told me once that you loved me.”

“This moment I told you that I did so,—­years ago.”

“But now?”

“That is another matter.”

“Violet, do you love me now?”

“That is a point-blank question at any rate,” she said.

“And you will answer it?”

“I must answer it,—­I suppose.”

“Well, then?”

“Oh, Oswald, what a fool you are!  Love you! of course I love you.  If you can understand anything, you ought to know that I have never loved any one else;—­that after what has passed between us, I never shall love any one else.  I do love you.  There.  Whether you throw me away from you, as you did the other day,—­with great scorn, mind you,—­or come to me with sweet, beautiful promises, as you do now, I shall love you all the same.  I cannot be your wife, if you will not have me; can I?  When you run away in your tantrums because I quote something out of the copy-book, I can’t run after you.  It would not be pretty.  But as for loving you, if you doubt that, I tell you, you are a—­fool.”  As she spoke the last words she pouted out her lips at him, and when he looked into her face he saw that her eyes were full of tears.  He was standing now with his arm round her waist, so that it was not easy for him to look into her face.

“I am a fool,” he said.

“Yes;—­you are; but I don’t love you the less on that account.”

“I will never doubt it again.”

“No;—­do not; and, for me, I will not say another word, whether you choose to heave coals or not.  You shall do as you please.  I meant to be very wise;—­I did indeed.”