And, indeed, she looked as if she were in a high fever. A sombre fire burned in her eyes, which seemed to take up half of the little face; her cheeks were of a greenish pallor. The sight of her hurt me. Her frail body was shaken by fits of coughing.
Her uncle and father-in-law arrived unexpectedly. The fuel in the great stove was replenished, and we sat down before the fire, without lighting the lamps, to enjoy the cosy hour of the gathering twilight.
She took a seat by my side, while the three men began to talk politics.
I saw her eyes shine through the dusk, I felt the warmth which radiated from her body.
Her skirts brushed against me, she leaned over to say something meant for me alone, and attacked me with a whispered question—
"Do you believe in love?"
"No!"
My "no" struck her like a blow, for I had at the same time jumped up and changed my seat.
She must be mad, I thought; and afraid of a scene I suggested that we should have the lamps lighted.
During supper uncle and father-in-law discussed cousin Matilda to their heart's content, praising her domesticity, her skill in needlework. The Baron, who had drunk several glasses of punch, burst out into extravagant eulogies and deplored, with alcoholic tears, the unkind treatment to which the "dear child" was subjected at home. But when apparently in the very depth of sympathetic sorrow, he suddenly pulled out his watch and prepared to leave us, as if called away by the stern voice of duty.