She talks and talks. She looks at him, and now she is beautiful. How could she help being beautiful? At last she can speak out to him, she can tell him how love came to her and how it has never left her since. Finally she can tell him how he has been all the world to her. Words cannot say enough; she takes his hand and kisses it. He lets her do it without moving. The color in his cheeks grows no deeper, but it becomes clearer, more transparent. She remembers Gandolfo, who had said that Gaetano’s face was so white that it shone. He does not interrupt her. She tells him about the railway, speaks of one miracle after another. He looks at her now and then. His eyes glow at the sight of her. He is not by any means making fun of her. She wonders exceedingly what is passing in him. He looks as if what she said was nothing new to him. He seems to recognize everything she says. Could it be that his love for her was the same as that she felt for him? Was it connected with every noble feeling in him? Had it been the elevating power in his life? Had it given wings to his artistic powers? Had it taught him to love the poor and the oppressed? Is it once more taking possession of him, making him feel that he is an artist, an apostle, that nothing is too high for him? But as he is still silent she thinks that perhaps he will not be tied to her. He loves her, but possibly he wishes to be a free man. Perhaps he thinks that she is not a suitable wife for a socialist. Her blood begins to boil. She thinks that he perhaps believes that she is sitting there and begging for his love. She has told him almost everything that has happened while he has been away. Now she suddenly breaks off in her story. “I have loved you,” she says. “I shall always love you, and I think that I should like you to tell me once that you love me. It would make the parting easier to bear.” “Would it?” he says. “Can I be your wife?” she says, and her voice trembles with indignation. “I no longer fear your teachings as I did; I am not afraid of your poor; I wish to turn the world upside down, I, as well as you. But I am a believer. How can I live with you if you do not agree with me in that? Or perhaps you would win me to unbelief? Then the world would be dead for me. Everything would lose its meaning, its significance. I should be a miserable, destitute creature. We must part.” “Really!” he turns towards her. His eyes begin to glow with impatience. “You may go now,” she says quietly; “I have said to you everything I wished to say. I should have wished that you had something to say to me. But perhaps it is better as it is. We will not make it harder to part than it need be.” One of Gaetano’s hands holds her hands firmly and closely, the other holds her head still. Then he kisses her. Was she mad, that she could think that he would let anything, anything in the world, part them now? IV ONLY OF THIS WORLD