She froze at his ardour, but his coldness almost kindled her, so that he approached by withdrawals and advanced by flights.
He displayed, first of all, a heavenly ignorance, an inspired curiosity regarding her.

He consulted her tastes, as if he had never known them; he started the time-honoured lovers' topics; he talked about books--which she preferred and the reasons for her preference.
He did not advance very far that way.

Anne was simply annoyed at the lapses in his memory.
He then began to buy books on the chance of her liking them, which answered better.
He promoted himself by degrees to personalities.

He talked to her about herself, handling her with religious reticence as a thing of holy and incomprehensible mystery.
"I suppose," he said one day, "if I were good enough, I should understand you.

Why do you sigh like that?
Is it because I'm not good enough?
Or because I don't understand ?" "I think," said she, "it is because I don't understand you." "My dear" (he allowed himself at this point the more formal endearment), "I thought I was disgracefully transparent--I'm limpidity, simplicity itself.