Because my friends were
good to me, the world was good to me, I got into the habit of believing
that I was lovable, and of loving in return. And I trusted people. I
always thought they were giving me what I was giving them. That has
been my great folly, the folly I'm punished for. I have been a credulous
fool. I have thought that because I gave a thing with all my heart it
was--it must be--given back to me. And yet I was surprised--I could
scarcely believe it--when--when--"

He knew she was thinking of her beautiful wonder when Maurice had said
he loved her.

"I could scarcely believe it! But, because I was a fool, I got to
believe it, and I have believed it till to-day--you have stood by,
and watched me believing it, and laughed at me for believing it till
to-day."

"Hermione!"

"Yes, you mayn't have meant to laugh, but you must have laughed. Your
mind, your intellect must have laughed. Don't say they haven't. I
wouldn't believe you. And I know your mind--at any rate, I know that.
Not your heart! I shall never pretend--I shall never think again for a
moment that I know anything--anything at all--about a man's heart. But
I do know something about your mind. And I know the irony in it. What a
subject I have presented to you all these years for the exercise of your
ironic faculty! You ought to thank me! You ought to go on your knees and
thank me and bless me for that!"

"Hermione!"

"Just now you talked of my coming into your room in Kairouan all covered
with dust. You asked me if I remembered it. Yes, I do. And I remember
something you don't--probably you don't--remember. There was no
looking-glass in your room."

She stopped.

"No looking-glass!" he repeated, wondering.

"No, there was no looking-glass. And I remember when I came in I saw
there wasn't, and I was glad. Because I couldn't look at myself and see
how dreadful and dishevelled and hideous I was--how dirty even I was.
My impulse was to go to a glass. And then I was glad I couldn't. And I
looked at your face. And I thought 'he doesn't care. He loves me, all
dusty and hideous and horrid, as I am.' And then I didn't care either. I
said to myself, 'I look an object, and I don't mind a bit, because I
see in his face that he loves me for myself, because he sees my heart,
and--'"

And suddenly in her voice there was a sharp, hissing catch, and she
stopped short. For a full minute she was silent. And Artois did not
speak. Nor did he move.

"I felt th