Philip was thoughtful. "It is like you to take the blame on yourself. You are so kind-hearted that way."
In her present state, his words seemed like a reproach. "Philip, don't," she said sadly. "I know better than that."
He persisted. "No, you do not. You are too sympathetic, and you let your heart get the better of you."
"I wish you wouldn't talk that way," she repeated. "You wouldn't, if you knew the truth."
"Of course, I do not know what happened," he said, "but I do know you--even better than you know yourself."
"No, and I do not care. It was right, I am sure. The queen can do no wrong." He was intensely serious.
"Isn't there any common sense left in you, Philip?" she railed. "Have you gone clear back into medieval nonsense in your feeling toward me? I tell you, you are indulging in foolishness."
"Am I?" He smiled. "Well, if that is the best I have to give--"
"I have killed a man's love before this," she answered bitterly.
"But you cannot kill mine. I love you, whether you love me or not. I am proud to acknowledge my unreturned love."
"As you please." Claire stopped suddenly. "Are we apt to get anywhere with this subject?" she asked ironically.
She looked at Philip thoughtfully. Perhaps the truth about her own weakness might cure him.
"Suppose I allowed you to love me, and you found that you had won a woman whose passions were her whole life. Suppose she should prove to be a mere bundle of sex, all polished over with other people's ideas, a social manner, and a set of morals which she did not really feel, which were deceiving ornaments hiding her soul. What would you think of your prize?"
"I should not love such a woman. I could not."
"But suppose you were deceived and thought her other than she was."
"I hardly expect such a thing to happen. Why suppose?"
"Because if I were your wife you might find it to be true."
Philip laughed aloud. "Claire, how preposterous! Are you trying to kill my love for you with such terrifying pictures of depravity?"
"I wasn't trying to do anything. I just wanted to know."
"Yes, you are like all of your type; you are in love with what your own desire chooses as an ideal, and then you shout, 'Behold, I am not a sensual lover!'"
He stared at her in amazement. "What sort of a thing do you think I am?"