He shook his head. A very little sigh escaped her.
“You will be kind and generous to me, I know; but you will give me no moment again such as this I have stolen. And I have stolen your bed too, monsieur; but you must take it from me now, and lie in the warm nest I have made for you—it is such a little of myself, it will not matter to you—and I will sleep here before the fire.”
He got now resolutely to his feet.
“Nicette, it is folly. You must return to bed, I tell you. I am going out again for the night. To-morrow, I say, we will try to settle matters for the best.”
She clung to him yet as he moved, letting him even pull her a step forward on her knees.
“One thing—just one last thing. I shall like you to know, when I am gone—some day, when I am gone—that I died a maid.”
Her face, in the shadow, was turned up to him. The firelight made an aureole of her hair. He could feel her whole body heaving against his hand.
“Will you kiss me once?” she said.
He was conscious of a choking in his throat, and beat down the emotion fiercely.
“No,” he muttered; “it would imply something that must not be.”