“You can’t,” she answered. “It will be years”
“But I love you,” I insisted.
I stood not a yard from the sweet lips I had kissed; I stood within
arm’s length of the inanimate beauty I desired to quicken, and I saw
opening between us a gulf of years, toil, waiting, disappointments and
an immense uncertainty.
“I love you,” I said. “Don’t you love me?”
She looked me in the face with grave irresponsive eyes.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I _like_ you, of course.... One has to be
sensibl...”
I can remember now my sense of frustration by her unresilient reply. I
should have perceived then that for her my ardour had no quickening
fire. But how was I to know? I had let myself come to want her, my
imagination endowed her with infinite possibilities. I wanted her and
wanted her, stupidly and instinctively....
“But,” I said “Love—!”
“One has to be sensible,” she replied. “I like going about with you.
Can’t we keep as we are?’”