“I don’t want to hear them now,” I answered. I did want to hear the story, but I found it so pleasant to break down his composure. “I don’t want to play at life,” I said, “but to live, as you do yourself.”
His face, which reflected every feeling so quickly and so vividly, now expressed pain and intense attention.
“I want to share your life, to … ,” but I could not go on—his face showed such deep distress. He was silent for a moment.
“But what part of my life do you not share?” he asked; “is it because I, and not you, have to bother with the inspector and with tipsy labourers?”
“That’s not the only thing,” I said.
“For God’s sake try to understand me, my dear!” he cried. “I know that excitement is always painful; I have learnt that from the experience of life. I love you, and I can’t but wish