“Fritz,” she began softly, “I am wicked—so wicked. Won’t God punish me for my gladness?”
I fear I paid little heed to her trouble, though I can understand it well enough now.
“Gladness?” I cried in a low voice. “Then you’ve persuaded him?”
She smiled at me for an instant.
“I mean, you’ve agreed?” I stammered.
Her eyes again sought mine, and she said in a whisper: “Some day, not now. Oh, not now. Now would be too much. But some day, Fritz, if God will not deal too hardly with me, I—I shall be his, Fritz.”
I was intent on my vision, not on hers. I wanted him king; she did not care what he was, so that he was hers, so that he should not leave her.
“He’ll take the throne,” I cried triumphantly.
“No, no, no. Not the throne. He’s going away.”
“Going away!” I could not keep the dismay out of my voice.