Page 437 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

intimated just now, you’ll be tired some day.’ He paused a
moment and then he went on: ‘I don’t know whether I had
better not wait till then for something I want to say to you.’
‘Ah, I can’t advise you without knowing what it is. But
I’m horrid when I’m tired,’ Isabel added with due inconse-
quence.
‘I don’t believe that. You’re angry, sometimes—that I can
believe, though I’ve never seen it. But I’m sure you’re never
‘cross.’’
‘Not even when I lose my temper?’
‘You don’t lose it—you find it, and that must be beauti-
ful.’ Osmond spoke with a noble earnestness. ‘They must be
great moments to see.’
‘If I could only find it now!’ Isabel nervously cried.
‘I’m not afraid; I should fold my arms and admire you.
I’m speaking very seriously.’ He leaned forward, a hand on
each knee; for some moments he bent his eyes on the floor.
‘What I wish to say to you,’ he went on at last, looking up, ‘is
that I find I’m in love with you.’
She instantly rose. ‘Ah, keep that till I am tired!’
‘Tired of hearing it from others?’ He sat there raising
his eyes to her. ‘No, you may heed it now or never, as you
please. But after all I must say it now.’ She had turned away,
but in the movement she had stopped herself and dropped
her gaze upon him. The two remained a while in this situ-
ation, exchanging a long look—the large, conscious look of
the critical hours of life. Then he got up and came near her,
deeply respectful, as if he were afraid he had been too famil-
iar. ‘I’m absolutely in love with you.’

437