"I don't understand," said the Countess, much troubled. "Surely you can deny your lack of honesty?"
"Yes, I can deny that."
There was a pause. Then he went on: "Just now I asked myself if I was being entirely honest"--he looked at Vanda--"with you. All day I have been asking myself, I was afraid I could not be. But after searching myself I think that, whatever my feelings about you--you personally----"
He stopped. There was no mistaking the nature of his feelings towards her. They were written on his face, shone from his eyes.
"I--I have been honest in this," he concluded.
"We are seldom honest with ourselves," she put in.
"I have tried to be. I believe I have succeeded. And Vanda, on my honor, I believe that, even if I--even had I never given you more than a cousinly thought since--since it was too late, I'd be against your marrying Joseph till he has redeemed his promise to fight on the right side."
She leaned towards him, forgetful even of her aunt now, full of thoughts for Joseph, of him alone.
"Do you know," she said in low, passionate tones, "that there were years, yes, long years, when I loved you, would have died for you; would have followed you barefooted to Siberia rather than be parted from you? And you took no more account of me than of this table. What was I? The little orphan cousin. A bit of furniture in your house. Nothing more."
"Vanda! How unjust!" cried his mother.