"Then you grant my request?"
"I thank you; on my knees, I'll thank you; but I beg of you, don't make me talk much now."
"There's no need of your doing so, dear Countess," said Madame Gunther. "You've apparently neglected or forgotten me; but in your heart, you've remembered me. And even if it were otherwise, there was one short hour during which we opened our hearts to each other."
Irma raised her hands as if to shield herself,--as if the kind words pierced her like so many arrows. In a soothing voice, Madame Gunther added: "I shall consider it a kindness, if you will allow me to be kind to you; you have no mother and, perhaps--you will soon have no father."
Irma groaned aloud and pressed her hands to her eyes.
"My dear child," said Madame Gunther, placing her hand upon Irma's arm. Irma started--"there are many of God's creatures on earth, so that the sympathy of those whom misfortune has spared may serve as a support to the afflicted, and as a light in the hour of darkness. I beg of you, do not be proud in your grief. Let me share in all that the next few days may have in store for you."
"Proud? proud?" asked Irma, suddenly grasping Madame Gunther's hand and as suddenly dropping it again. "No, dear honored madame. I appreciate your affectionate motives. I understand--I know--all. I could calmly accept your kindness. I know--at least I think--that I, too, would have just acted as you do, if--"
"This is the best and the only thanks," interposed Madame Gunther, but Irma motioned her to stop, and continued:
"I entreat you, do not torture me. Your husband and my brother will accompany me. I beg of you, say nothing more. I thank you; I shall never forget your kindness."
Gunther entered the room again and Irma said: