She was very peculiar—that was very true; yet Bernard held to his declaration of the day before that he now understood her a little.
“No, I don’t desire it,” he said. “I wish to see you alone; I have something particular to say to you.”
She turned her face toward him, and there was something in its expression that showed him that he looked to her more serious than he had ever looked. He sat down again; for some moments he hesitated to go on.
“You frighten me,” she said laughing; and in spite of her laugh this was obviously true.
“I assure you my state of mind is anything but formidable. I am afraid of you, on the contrary; I am humble and apologetic.”
“I am sorry for that,” said Angela. “I particularly dislike receiving apologies, even when I know what they are for. What yours are for, I can’t imagine.”
“You don’t dislike me—you don’t hate me?” Bernard suddenly broke out.
“You don’t ask me that humbly. Excuse me therefore if I say I have other, and more practical, things to do.”
“You despise me,” said Bernard.
“That is not humble either, for you seem to insist upon it.”