“Gabrielle, do you believe in affinities?” “I believe in sympathy,” she answers, wondering what he is going to say now. “I am a firm believer in affinities, and don’t believe in the possibility of love existing between two persons devoid of affinity. Tell me, Gabrielle! do you follow me at all?” She makes a slight gesture of assent, but she doesn’t in the slightest comprehend what he is driving at. No matter, he is close besides her. If she likes, she can touch him, and this is enough to put this impassioned child of Eve into a fever of delight. “I don’t believe that anyone can give another anything that does not belong to that other. He may withhold it to a certain degree, but it _must_ be given in the end. Perfect love is when one meets someone to whom one can give all, and from whom one desires all.” “Imperfect affinities are all that most people in _our_ world know of love, and, Gabrielle, Belgravia is horribly ignorant, do you know? Being so, they call a part of such and such a thing the whole, and demand allegiance of one’s whole nature to a feeling that belongs to, and feeds but a small part of it! Now, Gabrielle--my beautiful, tempting Gabrielle! you and I have this in common, that we hate sham, and never pretend to fine sentimental feelings unless we possess them. Isn’t it true?” Lord Delaval bends over her till his face nearly touches hers, and he smiles conceitedly as he notices how rosy red the cheek near him grows by his proximity. “I knew when I first saw you that you and I were exactly alike in our ideas and feelings. Somehow I felt it directly we spoke. I knew that you would never give to any man that which was not his--for you are dreadfully proud and cold and hard at the core, and when I found out, a day or two ago, that unconsciously I had learned to love you--do you hear me?--to love you with my whole being--when I found out that nothing short of an entire surrender of your soul--_of yourself_--would satisfy me, I trembled at the vision of bliss or torture that possibly lies before me--look at me, Gabrielle!” There is a quiet command in his voice which she never attempts to resist. To everyone else sharp, caustic, cold, and full of sneers, to this man she is the humblest of slaves; his, to do with as he wills. A daughter of Belgravia, with Lady Beranger’s worldly-wise notions dinned into her ears, and with worldly, ambitious women examples for her in daily life--of this man she wants nothing, only _himself_; to gain his love, and above all, to be let to love him, she would fling all other considerations to the four winds without a murmur or a regret. In a sort of maze, she lifts up a pair of big, incredulous black eyes to him now--eyes so soft and wistful--so filled with newborn light that no one would believe they belonged to Gabrielle Beranger.