“I do not care. When you wish me to know, you will tell me; and when I wish to know, I will ask. I can wait. I know what you are—to me.”
Either she did not catch the last words, for I had dropped my voice, or she affected not to hear. She said nothing and when we reached the top of the hill we rattled on again quickly.
When we drew rein at the next hill we walked half way to the top in silence and then she broke it abruptly:
“I will tell you if you wish, Burgwan.”
“I do not. To me you are Mademoiselle: to you I am Burgwan; and Mademoiselle and Burgwan we can best remain, until we are out of this bother.”
“How far do you think we are from Samac?”
“We ought not to be more than a dozen miles at most—but that’s not much more than a guess.”
“When we reach there, we shall part.”
“You will be glad to be on the safe road to Belgrade.”
“Is that another guess, Burgwan?”