He is still leaning towards her, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on hers.

It is an intent gaze that seldom wanders, and in truth why should it?
Where is any other thing as good to look at as this small, fair creature, with the eyes, and the hair, and the lips that belong to her?
He has taken possession of her fan, and gently, lovingly, as though indeed it is part of her, is holding it, raising it sometimes to sweep the feathers of it across his lips.
"Do you think so ?" says she, as if a little puzzled.

"Well, I confess I don't like the moments when I hate myself.

We all hate ourselves sometimes, don't we ?" looking at him as if doubtfully, "or is it only I myself, who----" "Oh, no!" says Hardinge.

_"All!_ All of us detest ourselves now and again, or at least we think we do.