"Only because I love you more than ever, and--it's a stupid feeling, of
course, I suppose all the fault of that last scene in the play--yet I
feel as if--But no, I don't want to say it."
"You must say it," I cried.
"Well, if only to hear you contradict me, then. I feel as if I were in
danger of losing you. It's just a feeling--a weight on my heart. Nothing
more. Rather womanish, isn't it?"
"Not womanish, but foolish," I said. "Shake off the feeling, as one
wakes up from a nightmare. Think of to-morrow. Meeting then will be all
the sweeter." As I spoke, it was as if a voice echoed mine, saying
different words mockingly. "If there be any meeting--to-morrow, or
ever."
I shut my ears to the voice, and went on quickly:
"Before we say good-bye, I've something to show you--something you'll
like very much. Wait here till I get it from the next room."
Marianne was tidying my dressing-room for the night, bustling here and
there, a dear old, comfortable, dependable thing. She was delighted with
my success, which she knew all about, of course; but she was not in the
least excited, because she had loyally expected me to succeed, and would
have thought the sky must be about to fall if I had failed.
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