‘We might have sent word that we were coming,’ she said, when they had driven more than a mile without speaking. ‘Hilda would have come to meet us on the road.’
‘It is better so,’ answered Greif mournfully.
‘I do not see why—it would have given the child such pleasure,’ remarked his companion, glancing at his face to see whether his expression would change or not.
‘Would it, do you think?’ asked Greif in an indifferent tone, though a very slight colour rose in his pale face.
‘Indeed it would. It is wrong in you to doubt it. Poor Hilda! She has not too many pleasures of any sort, and meeting you is one of the greatest.’
The blush in Greif’s cheek deepened. Again he set his feet firmly before him and braced himself in his seat as though to resist a shock. He hated himself for betraying his feeling in his face, and wished it were night. The baroness continued to speak in gentle tones, determined to obtain an answer from him, and if possible to make him engage in argument, for she believed that if he argued he was lost.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is a lonely life she leads up there. I am too old to be a real companion, and there is only old Berbel besides. It is pathetic to see her begin to count the days as soon as you are gone, and to watch her face as it gradually turns less grave when more than half the score is marked away.’
‘Does she do that?’ asked Greif, conscious that he was growing crimson.
‘Always. She used to do it, when she was a mere child, and you were only an overgrown boy. It seems to me that she always loved you, long before—long ago, I mean.’
Greif sighed, and looked away. The half-boyish blush faded slowly from his cheeks and left his face paler than before. The good lady saw the change with regret, and wondered whether the slip of the tongue she had made in her last sentence could have anything to do with it. But she did not despair, though she allowed a few moments to pass in silence. To her surprise it was Greif who renewed the conversation, and in a manner she had not in the least expected.