“Why, how deep you are plunged in your eager whispers there,” cried my father to us once while the cards were being shuffled; “what are you two plotting about?”
“I am telling the countess campaigning tales.”
“Oh, well, she is accustomed to that from her childhood. I tell her some too occasionally. Six cards, doctor, and a quart-major.”
We resumed our whispered talk.
Suddenly, as Tilling spoke—and he had again fastened his gaze on mine, and such intimate sympathy spoke in his voice—I thought of the princess.
It gave me a stab, and I turned my head away. Tilling stopped in the middle of a sentence.
“Why do you change countenance so, countess?” he asked in alarm. “Have I said anything to displease you?”
“Oh no! it was only a painful thought: pray go on.”
“I have forgotten what I was talking about. I would rather you would confide your painful thought to me. I have been the whole time pouring my heart out to you so openly. Now repay it to me.”
“It is quite impossible for me to confide to you what I was thinking about just now.”