But I was
reserved.
I was discreet. I tried to curb my own emotions and to
discourage hers. For my own part I fear that I betrayed myself,
for the eye becomes more eloquent when the tongue is silent.
Every quiver of my fingers as I turned over her music-sheets told
her my secret. But she--she was admirable. It is in these
matters that women have a genius for deception. If I had not
penetrated her secret I should often have thought that she forgot
even that I was in the house. For hours she would sit lost in a
sweet melancholy, while I admired her pale face and her curls in
the lamp-light, and thrilled within me to think that I had moved
her so deeply. Then at last I would speak, and she would start
in her chair and stare at me with the most admirable pretence of
being surprised to find me in the room. Ah! how I longed to hurl
myself suddenly at her feet, to kiss her white hand, to assure
her that I had surprised her secret and that I would not abuse
her confidence.
But no, I was not her equal, and I was under her roof as a
castaway enemy.
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