“Did you think it very heartless of me to desert you, M. de Tavernay?” she questioned.
“At first I could scarcely believe it,” I stammered, still staring at her; “but afterwards I saw that you meant to be kind. I should not have won the battle if you had stayed.”
“And you did win it!” she cried.
“Yes; your note helped—and—and the rose leaves,” I added hoarsely.
“I found them—in your bosom,” she said, her color deepening. “I thought—perhaps—you would like to have them.”
“Yes,” I said; “yes;” then stopped, looking at her. “But one may lose a battle even after winning it,” I warned her. “I fear I am losing mine. You are trusting me too far, as you did once before. Do you remember?” and my blood glowed at the recollection.
“Don’t!” she said, and turned away.
“Where is——”
I hesitated, looking about me. I could not say the words.
“Your betrothed?” she finished, turning back, her eyes gleaming in the old manner. “You are longing for her, then?”