"What use?" asked Sophie, leaning forward, with interest, for he had
never spoken about his former life before.
"The same way that a man who never drinks has a more delicate sense of
taste than a drunkard," returned Bressant, apparently pleased with his
simile. "I've seen so little of women, that I can taste you more
correctly than if I had seen a great many. Understand?"
Sophie did not answer, being somewhat thrown out by this new way of
looking at the matter. There seemed to be some reason in it, too.
"If I'd associated with other people, I shouldn't have been sensitive
enough to recognize you when we met; no one except me can know you or
feel you," continued he, following out his idea.
Sophie began to feel a vague misgiving. What did this mean? What was
going to be the end of it? Ought she to allow it to go on? And yet--most
likely it meant nothing; it was only one of his queer fancies that he
was elaborating. There did not seem to be any thing suspicious in his
manner.
"It wasn't easy even for me," he resumed, throwing another glance at
her; she sat with her eyes cast down, so that he could observe her with
impunity. "It would have been impossible unless you had helped me to it.
You have taught me yourself, even more than I have studied you."
Sophie started, and a look of terror, bewilderment, and passionate
repudiation, lightened in her eyes. How dared he--how could he, say
that? how so falsely misrepresent her actions, and misinterpret her
purposes? Her mind went staggering back over the past, seeking for means
of self-justification and defense. She had only meant to benefit him--to
amplify and soften his character--to inspire him with more ideal views
and aims; and to do this she had--what? Sophie paused, and shuddered.
Could it, after all, be true? Had she, forgetful of maidenly modesty and
reserve, opened to this man's eyes her secret soul? invited him into the
privacy of her heart, to criticise and handle it?--invited him!--brought
forward, and pressed upon his notice, the thoughts and impulses which
she should scarcely have whispered even to herself? Had she done this?
"You have taught me that there is no one like you in the world," said
Bressant. His voice sounded strangely to her, coming across such an
abyss of shame, remorse, and dismay. Did he know the bitter satire his
words conveyed? Sophie's face was hidden in her hands. She dared not
think what might come next.
"Is it nothing to you to know that you are more to me than any thing
else?" demanded he, and his tone was becoming husky and unsteady. The
passion that had been smouldering within him so long, unsuspected in its
intensity even by himself, was now beginning to be-stir itself, and
shoot forth jets of flame. "Why have you let yourself be with me--why
have you made yourself necessary to me--if I was nothing to you?"