“But, my frien', if it should be that I cannot wish you to look so at me, or to speak so to me?”
“I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed, almost incoherently. “I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I wouldn't do anything you'd think ungentlemanly for the world!”
Her eyes lifted again to his with what he had no difficulty in recognizing as a look of perfect trust; but, behind that, he perceived a darkling sadness.
“I know it is true,” she murmured—“I know. But you see there are time' when a woman has sorrow—sorrow of one kind—when she mus' be sure that there is only—only rispec' in the hearts of her frien's.”
With that, the intended revelation was complete, and the young man understood, as clearly as if she had told him in so many words, that she was not a widow and that her husband was the cause of her sorrow. His quickened instinct marvelously divined (or else it was conveyed to him by some intangible method of hers) that the Count de Vaurigard was a very bad case, but that she would not divorce him.
“I know,” he answered, profoundly touched. “I understand.”
In silent gratitude she laid her hand for a second upon his sleeve. Then her face brightened, and she said gayly:
“But we shall not talk of me! Let us see how we can keep you out of mischief at leas' for a little while. I know very well what you will do to-night: you will go to Salone Margherita an' sit in a box like all the wicked Americans—”
“No, indeed, I shall not!”
“Ah, yes, you will!” she laughed. “But until dinner let me keep you from wickedness. Come to tea jus' wiz me, not at the hotel, but at the little apartment I have taken, where it is quiet. The music is finish', an' all those pretty girl' are goin' away, you see. I am not selfish if I take you from the Pincio now. You will come?”