"'That foolish play,' as you call it----" he had begun angrily, but a
certain sympathy for her, new-born out of his own trouble, stopped him,
and he went on, only reproach in his tone: "It was a sad play for me,
because my heart has never been my own since. I could not find out who
you were then, or where you hid yourself; I do not know now, but----"
He stopped; he did not wish to offend her; he looked at the glossy neck
of the horse he was holding. "I was young and very foolish, but I loved
you."
The sound of his own low sad tones was still in his ears when he also
heard the low music of irrepressible laughter, and, looking up, he saw
that the recollection which a few minutes before had made him smile had
now entirely overcome the lady's gravity. She was blushing, she was
trying not to laugh; but in spite of herself she did laugh more and more
heartily, and although her merriment was inopportune, he could not help
joining in it to some extent. It was so cheerful to see the
laughter-loving self appear within the grave face, to be beside her, and
to have partnership in her mirth. So they looked in each other's eyes,
and they both laughed, and after that they felt better.
"And yet," said he, "it was a frolic that has worked sorrow for me."
"Come," said she, lifting her reins, "you will regret if you go on
talking this way."
She would have gone on quite lightly and contentedly, and left him there
as if he had said nothing of love, as if their words had been the mere
reminiscence of a past that had no result in the present, as if his
heart was not breaking; but a fierce sense of this injustice made him
keep his hold of her bridle.
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