“You mustn’t talk that way, Carl. You’re nothing of the sort.”
She tried to comfort him but he stopped her with a gesture of mingled impatience and denial. His abjectness stirred her deeply. She felt again the wave of tenderness coming over her that she had experienced the last time she had talked with him in this very room, the time she had sent him away. She was a little frightened—her emotion was deeper, more moving than before. His unhappiness had subtly transferred itself to her and she found herself filled with an almost overwhelming desire to touch him, to hold him near her.
Carl raised his head and looked searchingly at her. His gaze disturbed her, moved her, made her uncomfortable. She remembered the day she first met him, the inclusive way in which he had surveyed her and the resentment his look had stirred in her. There was no resentment now. Instead there was a fear he might see way down beneath and know how she had missed him, how she had longed for him.
“Mimi, there’s one thing I want to tell you now that I’m here. I feel like a dog in telling you—I have no business even thinking it. But I want you to know—no matter what stories you hear—that—that—I love you!” His tone was half defiant, half tender, as he nervously flung the last three words at her.
Mimi sat silent, her eyes in her lap. With Carl’s declaration a great peace came upon her. Doubt, fear, uncertainty left her.
“And I love you, too, Carl,” she said, simply.
With a bound he crossed the room and sat beside her.
“You—love—me—too?” he asked, amazement, doubt that he had heard aright in his voice.