e
heard him speak, and ever and again the name of Beatrice rang in her
ears. He looked at her hands, and knew them; at her black dress,
and knew it for her own, and yet he poured out the eloquence of his
love--kneeling, then standing, then sitting at her side, drawing her
head to his shoulder and smoothing her fair hair--so black to him--with
a gentle hand. She was passive through it all, as yet. There seemed to
be no other way. He paused sometimes, then spoke again. Perhaps, in
the dream that possessed him, he heard her speak. Possibly, he was
unconscious of her silence, borne along by the torrent of his own long
pent-up speech. She could not tell, she did not care to know. Of one
thing alone she thought, of how to escape from it all and be alone.

She feared to move, still more to rise, not knowing what he would do. As
he was now, she could not tell what effect her words would have if
she spoke. It might be but a passing state after all. What would the
awakening be? Would his forgetfulness of Beatrice and his coldness to
herself return with the subsidence of his passion? Far better that than
to see him and hear him as he was now.

And yet there were moments now and then when he pronounced no name, when
he recalled no memory of the past, when there was only the tenderness
of love itself in his words, and then, as she listened, she could almost
think it was for her. It was bitter joy, unreal and fantastic, but it
was a relief. Had she loved him less, such a conflict between sense and
senses would have been impossible even in imagination. But she loved
him greatly and the deep desire to be loved in turn was in her still,
shaming her better thoughts, but sometimes ruling her in spite of
herself and of the pain she suffered with each word self-applied. All
the vast contradictions, all the measureless inconsistency, all the
enormous selfishness of which human hearts are capable, had met in hers
as in a battle-ground, fighting each other, rending what they found
of herself amongst them, sometimes uniting to throw their whole weight
together against the deep-rooted passion, sometimes taking side with it
to drive out every other rival.

It was shameful, base, despicable, and she knew it. A moment ago she had
longed to tear herself away, to silence him, to stop her ears, anything
not to hear those words that cut like whips and stung like scorpions.
And now again she was listening for the next, eagerly, breathlessly,
drunk wi