“I saw him on the journey, at Turin, at Modane, at—Oh, Sir Charles, do not ask me any more about him!” she cried, with a sudden outburst, half-grief, half-dread. “I cannot tell you—I am obliged to—I—I—”
“Then do not say another word,” he said, promptly.
“There are other things. But my lips are sealed—at least for the present. You do not—will not think any worse of me?”
She laid her hand gently on his arm, and his closed over it with such evident good-will that a blush crimsoned her cheek. It still hung there, and deepened when he said, warmly:
“As if anything could make me do that! Don’t you know—you may not, but let me assure you, Countess—that nothing could happen to shake me in the high opinion I have of you. Come what may, I shall trust you, believe in you, think well of you—always.”
“How sweet of you to say that! and now, of all times,” she murmured quite softly, and looking up for the first time, shyly, to meet his eyes.
Her hand was still on his arm, covered by his, and she nestled so close to him that it was easy, natural, indeed, for him to slip his other arm around her waist and draw her to him.
“And now—of all times—may I say one word more?” he whispered in her ear. “Will you give me the right to shelter and protect you, to stand by you, share your troubles, or keep them from you—?”
“No, no, no, indeed, not now!” She looked up appealingly, the tears brimming up in her bright eyes. “I cannot, will not accept this sacrifice. You are only speaking out of your true-hearted chivalry. You must not join yourself to me, you must not involve yourself—”
He stopped her protests by the oldest and most effectual method known in such cases. That first sweet kiss sealed the compact so quickly entered into between them.