She grew troubled.
"I wish you had not said this to me," she faltered. "I—do not know that I wish to change my life. I could, of course, be free, I suppose—if I wanted to be—but—I am not sure. What would it mean if I listened to you? Tell me! I am sometimes very lonely—and I like you so much."
"I want to make you feel more than that, but I will be content with whatever you will give me. I do not care one atom what dark page is in your past, I know it can have been nothing of your own fault, and if it were, I should not care—I only care for you—Sabine—will you not tell me that you will try to let me make you happy. It would mean that, that I should devote my whole life to making you happy."
"A woman should be contented with that, surely," she said. And if Henry Fordyce had had his usual critical wits about him unclouded by love, he would have smiled his cynical smile and have said to himself:
"The spark is not lit, my friend; her voice lacks enthusiasm and her brows are calm," but he was like all lovers—blind—and only saw and heard what could comfort his heart, and so caught at the straw with delight.
"Whatever you asked I would give you. Only say that you will let me set about helping you to be free at once."
Mrs. Howard, however, had not gone this far in her imaginings—the idea had started in her brain, no doubt, but it had not matured yet, and all was hesitancy.
"I cannot promise anything. You must give me time to think, Lord Fordyce."
"Dearest, of course I will—but you will take steps to make yourself free—will you not? I have not asked, and I will not ask you a single question, only that you will tell me when I really may hope."
His voice was deep with feeling, and his distinguished, clever face was eager and full of devotion, as they turned an abrupt corner, and there came face to face with two of their American acquaintances in the hotel.