"That's a lot to ask of any man," he said. "If you care, you care.""And if you were a girl you would know exactly what I mean," she said. "They may know they care, but, unless they are marrying for perfectly different reasons, they have to feel to the end of their fingers that they care before they can say 'Yes.'"He opened the door for her to pass out, and they walked up the passage together arm-in-arm.
"Well, perhaps Michael won't ask you," he said, "in which case all bother will be saved, and we shall have sat up talking till--Sylvia, did you know it is nearly three--sat up talking for nothing!"Sylvia considered this.
"Fiddlesticks!" she said.
And Hermann was inclined to agree with her.
This view of the case found confirmation next day, for Michael, after his music lesson, lingered so firmly and determinedly when the three chatted together over the fire that in the end Hermann found nothing to do but to leave them together. Sylvia had given him no sign as to whether she wished him to absent himself or not, and he concluded, since she did not put an end to things by going away herself, that she intended Michael to have his say.
The latter rose as the door closed behind Hermann, and came and stood in front of her. And at the moment Sylvia could notice nothing of him except his heaviness, his plainness, all the things that she had told herself before did not really matter. Now her sensation contradicted that; she was conscious that the ash somehow had vastly accumulated over her fire, that all her affection and regard for him were suddenly eclipsed. This was a complete surprise to her; for the moment she found Michael's presence and his proximity to her simply distasteful.
"I thought Hermann was never going," he said.
For a second or two she did not reply; it was clearly no use to continue the ordinary banter of conversation, to suggest that as the room was Hermann's he might conceivably be conceded the right to stop there if he chose. There was no transition possible between the affairs of every day and the affair for which Michael had stopped to speak. She gave up all attempt to make one;instead, she just helped him.
"What is it, Michael?" she asked.
Then to her, at any rate, Michael's face completely changed. There burned in it all of a sudden the full glow of that of which she had only seen glimpses.
"You know," he said.
His shyness, his awkwardness, had all vanished; the time had come for him to offer to her all that he had to offer, and he did it with the charm of perfect manliness and simplicity.
"Whether you can accept me or not," he said, "I have just to tell you that I am entirely yours. Is there any chance for me, Sylvia?"He stood quite still, making no movement towards her. She, on her side, found all her distaste of him suddenly vanished in the mere solemnity of the occasion. His very quietness told her better than any protestations could have done of the quality of what he offered, and that quality vastly transcended all that she had known or guessed of him.
"I don't know, Michael," she said at length.
She came a step forward, and without any sense of embarrassment found that she, without conscious intention, had put her hands on his shoulders. The moment that was done she was conscious of the impulse that made her do it. It expressed what she felt.
"Yes, I feel like that to you," she said. "You're a dear. Iexpect you know how fond I am of you, and if you don't I assure you of it now. But I have got to give you more than that."Michael looked up at her.
"Yes, Sylvia," he said, "much more than that."A few minutes ago only she had not liked him at all; now she liked him immensely.
"But how, Michael?" she asked. "How can I find it?""Oh, it's I who have got to find it for you," he said. "That is to say, if you want it to be found. Do you?"She looked at him gravely, without the tremor of a smile in her eyes.
"What does that mean exactly?" she said.
"It is very simple. Do you want to love me?"She did not move her hands; they still rested on his shoulders like things at ease, like things at home.
"Yes, I suppose I want to," she said.
"And is that the most you can do for me at present?" he asked.
That reached her again; all the time the plain words, the plain face, the quiet of him stabbed her with daggers of which he had no idea. She was dismayed at the recollection of her talk with her brother the evening before, of the ease and certitude with which she had laid down her conditions, of not giving up her career, of remaining the famous Miss Falbe, of refusing to take a dishonoured place in the sacred circle of the Combers. Now, when she was face to face with his love, so ineloquently expressed, so radically a part of him, she knew that there was nothing in the world, external to him and her, that could enter into their reckonings; but into their reckonings there had not entered the one thing essential.
She gave him sympathy, liking, friendliness, but she did not want him with her blood. And though it was not humanly possible that she could want him with more than that, it was not possible that she could take him with less.
"Yes, that is the most I can do for you at present," she said.
Still quite quietly he moved away from her, so that he stood free of her hands.
"I have been constantly here all these last months," he said. "Now that you know what I have told you, do you want not to see me?"That stabbed her again.
"Have I implied that?" she asked.
"Not directly. But I can easily understand its being a bore to you. I don't want to bore you. That would be a very stupid way of trying to make you care for me. As I said, that is my job. Ihaven't accomplished it as yet. But I mean to. I only ask you for a hint."She understood her own feeling better than he. She understood at least that she was dealing with things that were necessarily incalculable.
"I can't give you a hint," she said. "I can't make any plans about it. If you were a woman perhaps you would understand. Love is, or it isn't. That is all I know about it."But Michael persisted.
