“Would you like to change masters, Chris?” He drew himself lazily across the grass at my words and thrust his nose into my hand almost as if understanding my question and answering it. “I will give him to you if you like, Mademoiselle.”
But she shook her head. “No. No, no, no,” she cried.
“Why not?”
She called him back to her side and caressed him before she answered, and then spoke very slowly.
“I don’t think I know why. I would rather have him than anything in the world, but I couldn’t take him. I—I couldn’t bear to have him, I think.”
“You may change your mind when you see him next time.” She bent over him again and patted him and let him lick her hand.
“I am afraid I know what you mean, Burgwan—that you think of coming some day to Belgrade. I hope you never will.”
“Why?”
“It would not do. Oh, no, no, a thousand times no. It is so difficult to explain. Here we are Burgwan and Mademoiselle; and there—well, for one thing, you would have your clean clothes,” and she broke off with a smile partly quizzical and partly of dismay; and then added: “You would look for Mademoiselle and would only find....” she finished with a shake of the head and a sigh.
“You think I should be disappointed?”