“You have much more sense and wit than one might think.  And since you force me to be quite frank with you, I will own that, as you now are and even should you never change, I have an esteem and an affection for you which will last as long as my life.  Rest assured of that, Bernard, whatever I may say in a moment of anger.  You know I have a quick temper—­that runs in the family.  The blood of the Mauprats will never flow as smoothly as other people’s.  Have a care for my pride, then, you know so well what pride is, and do not ever presume upon rights you have acquired.  Affection cannot be commanded; it must be implored or inspired.  Act so that I may always love you; never tell me that I am forced to love you.”

“That is reasonable enough,” I answered; “but why do you sometimes speak to me as if I were forced to obey you?  Why, for instance, this evening did you forbid me to drink and order me to study?”

“Because if one cannot command affection which does not exist, one can at least command affection which does exist; and it is because I am sure yours exists that I commanded it.”

“Good!” I cried, in a transport of joy; “I have a right then to order yours also, since you have told me that it certainly exists. . . .  Edmee, I order you to kiss me.”

“Let go, Bernard!” she cried; “you are breaking my arm.  Look, you have scraped it against the bars.”

“Why have you intrenched yourself against me?” I said, putting my lips to the little scratch I had made on her arm.  “Ah, woe is me!  Confound the bars!  Edmee, if you would only bend your head down I should be able to kiss you . . . kiss you as my sister.  Edmee, what are you afraid of?”

“My good Bernard,” she replied, “in the world in which I live one does not kiss even a sister, and nowhere does one kiss in secret.  I will kiss you every day before my father, if you like; but never here.”

“You will never kiss me!” I cried, relapsing into my usual passion.  “What of your promise?  What of my rights?”

“If we marry,” she said, in an embarrassed tone, “when you have received the education I implore you to receive, . . .”

“Death of my life!  Is this a jest?  Is there any question of marriage between us?  None at all.  I don’t want your fortune, as I have told you.”

“My fortune and yours are one,” she replied.  “Bernard, between near relations as we are, mine and thine are words without meaning.  I should never suspect you of being mercenary.  I know that you love me, that you will work to give me proof of this, and that a day will come when your love will no longer make me fear, because I shall be able to accept it in the face of heaven and earth.”

“If that is your idea,” I replied, completely drawn away from my wild passion by the new turn she was giving to my thoughts, “my position is very different; but, to tell you the truth, I must reflect on this; I had not realized that this was your meaning.”