“I thought Hermann was never going,” he said.

For a second or two she did not reply; it was clearly no use to continue the ordinary banter of conversation, to suggest that as the room was Hermann’s he might conceivably be conceded the right to stop there if he chose.  There was no transition possible between the affairs of every day and the affair for which Michael had stopped to speak.  She gave up all attempt to make one; instead, she just helped him.

“What is it, Michael?” she asked.

Then to her, at any rate, Michael’s face completely changed.  There burned in it all of a sudden the full glow of that of which she had only seen glimpses.

“You know,” he said.

His shyness, his awkwardness, had all vanished; the time had come for him to offer to her all that he had to offer, and he did it with the charm of perfect manliness and simplicity.

“Whether you can accept me or not,” he said, “I have just to tell you that I am entirely yours.  Is there any chance for me, Sylvia?”

He stood quite still, making no movement towards her.  She, on her side, found all her distaste of him suddenly vanished in the mere solemnity of the occasion.  His very quietness told her better than any protestations could have done of the quality of what he offered, and that quality vastly transcended all that she had known or guessed of him.

“I don’t know, Michael,” she said at length.

She came a step forward, and without any sense of embarrassment found that she, without conscious intention, had put her hands on his shoulders.  The moment that was done she was conscious of the impulse that made her do it.  It expressed what she felt.

“Yes, I feel like that to you,” she said.  “You’re a dear.  I expect you know how fond I am of you, and if you don’t I assure you of it now.  But I have got to give you more than that.”

Michael looked up at her.

“Yes, Sylvia,” he said, “much more than that.”

A few minutes ago only she had not liked him at all; now she liked him immensely.

“But how, Michael?” she asked.  “How can I find it?”

“Oh, it’s I who have got to find it for you,” he said.  “That is to say, if you want it to be found.  Do you?”

She looked at him gravely, without the tremor of a smile in her eyes.

“What does that mean exactly?” she said.

“It is very simple.  Do you want to love me?”

She did not move her hands; they still rested on his shoulders like things at ease, like things at home.

“Yes, I suppose I want to,” she said.

“And is that the most you can do for me at present?” he asked.