"It's too much for me. And
there is a whole long night before us."
"You don't think that I dealt with you sentimentally enough
perhaps? But the sentiment was there; as clear a flame as ever
burned on earth from the most remote ages before that eternal thing
which is in you, which is your heirloom. And is it my fault that
what I had to give was real flame, and not a mystic's incense? It
is neither your fault nor mine. And now whatever we say to each
other at night or in daylight, that sentiment must be taken for
granted. It will be there on the day I die--when you won't be
there."
She continued to look fixedly at the red embers; and from her lips
that hardly moved came the quietest possible whisper: "Nothing
would be easier than to die for you."
"Really," I cried. "And you expect me perhaps after this to kiss
your feet in a transport of gratitude while I hug the pride of your
words to my breast. But as it happens there is nothing in me but
contempt for this sublime declaration. How dare you offer me this
charlatanism of passion? What has it got to do between you and me
who are the only two beings in the world that may safely say that
we have no need of shams between ourselves? Is it possible that
you are a charlatan at heart? Not from egoism, I admit, but from
some sort of fear.
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