“I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. “But you must forgive me, John. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. I hate what I have to do to survive. A sudden knock at the door startled her. ‘My dear boy, your loyalty is misplaced. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. Even to my own brother—if I had one—I could not tell everything, and you, although you are so kind, you are almost a stranger, aren’t you?” “No, no!” he protested.
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