"Suppose all these people out there had hated and hissed me, instead of
applauding?" I asked. "Would you still be proud of me, still care for
me?"
"I'd love you better, if there could be a 'better,'" he answered,
holding me very close.
"You know, dearest one, most beautiful one, that I'm a jealous brute. I
can't bear you to belong to others--even to the public that appreciates
you almost as much as you deserve to be appreciated. Of course I'm proud
that they adore you, but I'd like to take you away from them and adore
you all by myself. Why, if the whole world turned against you, there'd
be a kind of joy in that for me. I'd be so glad of the chance to face it
for you, to shield you from it always."
"Then, what _is_ there would make you love me less?" I went on, dwelling
on the subject with a dreadful fascination, as one looks over the brink
of a precipice.
"Nothing on God's earth--while you kept true to me."
"And if I weren't true--if I deceived you?"
"Why, I'd kill you--and myself after. But it makes me see red--a blazing
scarlet--even to think of such a thing. Why should you speak of it--when
it's beyond possibility, thank Heaven! I know you love me, or you
wouldn't make such noble sacrifices to save me from ruin.
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