“He is keeping you from Belgrade—a much more serious matter.”
“I don’t mind that—and yet I suppose I ought to. But this is so delightful,” she cried, joyously.
“This?”
“This delicious freedom. This utter irresponsibility. This Burgwan and Mademoiselle comradeship. This being able to laugh at conventions and snap one’s fingers in the face of restrictions—the thousand petty ‘don’ts’ and ‘mustn’ts’ that edge one in so, till one’s very breath has to be drawn with restraint and every look and gesture fitted to some occasion and empty etiquette. How I wish I was just no more than a peasant girl! Oh, it is life.”
“There are plenty of them who would be glad to change places with you.”
“Yes, I know I am talking nonsense, and I daresay I should grow tired of it all in a week or a month, and sicken for the flummery and mummery again. Besides, there might be no Burgwan like you and no Chris in the picture, to feel safe with and trust. I couldn’t do with only Karasch’s, could I?”
“He is a very good fellow, and might make a very good husband.”
“Oh, don’t, please. Now you’ve shattered the dream, and made me wish for Belgrade and my friends.”
Did she mean all I was ready to read into that sentence? Was it intended as a warning lest another than Karasch should presume? I was glad I had held my tongue just before. When I did not reply, she stooped and patted the dog and then laughed.
“I wish you were my dog, Chris,” she said. “I shall get one just like him and call him Chris.”