“It will be wiser—wiser far,” I urged, “to stay at home. To speak plainly, you could not fail, in any sudden emergency, to hamper your father's steps. He would be nervous about you, and anxious for your safety.”
“But there is no need for that,” she cried, with a tender impatience. “I am not afraid. If I were a man you should not talk to me so.”
“No,” said the count, rising and folding his arms about her. “If you were a man, my dearest, you should have your way.”
“Oh,” she said, with a downward gesture of her clinched hands, “I hate these thoughts about women. Why should we not have courage? Why shouldn't we share danger with those we care about? I am not afraid of danger. But I could keep you away from it when there was no reason for it.”
“Violet,” said her father, gently, “I am not inclined to be rash; not now. I have had twenty years of warning, remember.”
“Remember, poor dear!” she cried, with both arms round his neck and her face hidden on his shoulder, “I have never forgotten for a moment since I knew that you were alive. But don't let me be so useless. Let me do something. Let me be near you. Don't leave me behind.”
“You do much already,” said the count, soothing her as he spoke with one loving hand upon her flushed and tear-stained cheek. “You surrender your father and your plighted husband, and a great slice of your fortune. Ah, dearest, you do enough!”
“I do nothing,” she declared. “Oh, I wish I were a man!”
“So do not I,” said the count. “I should quarrel with any wish the fulfilment of which robbed me of my daughter.”
She moved away from him gently, and dried her eyes. Her father watched her solicitously, and by-and-by she walked to the window of the room and said, in a tone of commonplace: “You cannot prevent me from following you.”