“I hope it does n’t offend you. I don’t say it lightly--it ‘s not a piece of gallantry. It ‘s the very truth of my being. I did n’t know it till lately--strange as that may seem. I loved you long before I knew it--before I ventured or presumed to know it. I was thinking of you when I seemed to myself to be thinking of other things. It is very strange--there are things in it I don’t understand. I travelled over the world, I tried to interest, to divert myself; but at bottom it was a perfect failure. To see you again--that was what I wanted. When I saw you last month at Blanquais I knew it; then everything became clear. It was the answer to the riddle. I wished to read it very clearly--I wished to be sure; therefore I did n’t follow you immediately. I questioned my heart--I cross-questioned it. It has borne the examination, and now I am sure. I am very sure. I love you as my life--I beg you to listen to me!” She had listened--she had listened intently, looking straight out of the window and without moving. “You have seen very little of me,” she said, presently, turning her illuminated eye on him. “I have seen enough,” Bernard added, smiling. “You must remember that at Baden I saw a good deal of you.” “Yes, but that did n’t make you like me. I don’t understand.” Bernard stood there a moment, frowning, with his eyes lowered. “I can imagine that. But I think I can explain.” “Don’t explain now,” said Angela. “You have said enough; explain some other time.” And she went out on the balcony. Bernard, of course, in a moment was beside her, and, disregarding her injunction, he began to explain. “I thought I disliked you--but I have come to the conclusion it was just the contrary. In reality I was in love with you. I had been so from the first time I saw you--when I made that sketch of you at Siena.” “That in itself needs an explanation. I was not at all nice then--I was very rude, very perverse. I was horrid!” “Ah, you admit it!” cried Bernard, with a sort of quick elation. She had been pale, but she suddenly blushed. “Your own conduct was singular, as I remember it. It was not exactly agreeable.” “Perhaps not; but at least it was meant to be. I did n’t know how to please you then, and I am far from supposing that I have learned now. But I entreat you to give me a chance.” She was silent a while; her eyes wandered over the great prospect of Paris. “Do you know how you can please me now?” she said, at last. “By leaving me alone.” Bernard looked at her a moment, then came straight back into the drawing-room and took his hat. “You see I avail myself of the first chance. But I shall come back to-morrow.” “I am greatly obliged to you for what you have said. Such a speech as that deserves to be listened to with consideration. You may come back to-morrow,” Angela added. On the morrow, when he came back, she received him alone. “How did you know, at Baden, that I did n’t like you?” he asked, as soon as she would allow him.