“You may think so perhaps,” I said, bitter that I should be so misunderstood.
“You ask for my advice,” she retorted, “and yet you grow angry when I give it. Shall I not say what I believe?”
“Pardon me,” I begged, “but you do not yet understand. I have told you that I have passed my whole life with my mother—for me she was the only woman in the world.”
“And now?” she asked. I could have sworn that she was luring me on but for the gross absurdity of such a thought.
“Now there is still only one woman, mademoiselle, but it is not the same one,” I answered simply.
To this for a moment she found no reply, but sat gazing out at the river with pensive eyes. The moon had risen above the tree-tops, seeking her; and finding her at last, caressed and threw a halo round her. I turned a little giddy at her pure, transcendent beauty, and my heart hungered for her.
At last she roused herself.
“Well, monsieur,” she said, “now that perhaps I understand a little better, do you still desire my advice?”
“Yes, mademoiselle; more than I can say.”
“Not, I hope, as to whether you should prove false to this betrothal?”