He stood before her—waiting patiently, his mouth close set, his manner dogged with purpose.
“It is not rubbish,” he said. “It is true that I shall be Prime Minister. It is true also that you will be my wife.”
She shrank back from him—uneasily. The fire in his eyes, the ring in his tone distressed her.
“As for my politics, you do not understand them. But you shall! I will convert you to my way of thinking. Yes, I will do that. The cause of the people, of freedom, is the one great impulse which beats through all the world. You too shall hear it.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I have no wish to hear it. I do not believe in what you call freedom for the people. I have discovered in America how uncomfortable a people’s country can be.”
“Yet you married an American. You call yourself still the Countess Radantz... but you married Mr. James B. Peterson!”
“It is true, my friend,” she answered. “But the American in question was a person of culture and intelligence, and at heart he was no more a democrat than I am. Further, I am an extravagant woman, and he was a millionaire.”
“And you, after his death, without necessity—went to bury yourself in his country.”
“Why not?”
“I am jealous of every year of your life which lies hidden from me,” he said slowly.