no doubt; it's all right for you to feel you've got me, as you know you
have--and with no fear, no danger. Yes, you enjoy it!'

'Oh, Aylmer!'

He saw in the half-darkness that her eyes looked reproachful.

'I didn't mean it. I'm sorry--I'm always being sorry.' His bitter tone
changed to gentleness. 'I want to speak to you now, Edith. We haven't
much time. Don't take away your hand a minute....I always told you,
didn't I, that the atmosphere round you is so clear that I feel with
you I'm in the Palace of Truth? You're so _real_. You're the only woman
I ever met who really cared for truth. You're not afraid of it; and
you're as straight and honourable as a man! I don't mean you can't
diplomatise if you choose, of course, and better than anyone; but it
isn't your nature to deceive yourself, nor anyone else. I recognise
that in you. I love it. And that's why I can't pretend or act with you;
I must be frank.'

'Please, do be frank.'

'I love you. I'm madly in love with you. I adore you.'

Aylmer stopped, deeply moved at the sound of his own words. Few people
realise the effect such words have on the speaker. Saying them to her
was a great joy, and an indulgence, but it increased painfully his
passionate feeling, making it more accentuated and acute. To let
himself go verbally was a wild, bitter pleasure. It hurt him, and he
enjoyed it.