when I read novels, I always fancy the crestfallen look of Lieut. Strélsky or Alfred, when he says, ‘I love you, Eleanora,’ and expects something wonderful to happen at once, and no change at all takes place in either of them—their eyes and their noses and their whole selves remain exactly as they were.”
Even then I had felt that this banter covered something serious that had reference to myself. But Kátya resented his disrespectful treatment of the heroes in novels.
“You are never serious,” she said; “but tell me truthfully, have you never yourself told a woman that you loved her?”
“Never, and never gone down on one knee,” he answered, laughing; “and never will.”
This conversation I now recalled, and I reflected that there was no need for him to tell me that he loved me. “I know that he loves me,” I thought, “and all his endeavours to seem indifferent will not change my opinion.”