"Yes. The difficulty lies in making you understand what I mean."
"As the Frenchman said when a man misunderstood him. You furnish me with an argument; you are not bound to furnish me with an understanding. No, I am afraid that would be asking the impossible. It is easier for a woman to talk than for a man to know what she thinks."
"I thought you said I was honest. Please explain," returned Hermione.
"Honesty does not always carry conviction. I mean that you are evidently most wonderfully honest, from your own point of view. If I could make my opinion yours, everything would be settled very soon."
"In what way?"
"Why should I tell you? I have told you so often, and you will not believe me. If I say it, you will send me away again. I do not say it,—another proof of my goodness to-night."
"I am deeply sensible," answered Hermione, with a laugh. "Come, I will give you one dance, and then you must go."
So they left their seat, and went into the ball-room just as the musicians began to play Nur für Natur; and the enchanting strains of the waltz carried them away in the swaying movement, and did them no manner of good. Just such conversations had taken place before, and would take place again so long as Hermione maintained the possibility of converting Alexander to the platonic view of cousinly affection. But each time some chance expression, some softer tone of voice, some warmer gleam of light in the Russian's brown eyes, betrayed that he was gaining ground rather than losing anything of the advantage he had already obtained.
Half an hour later Hermione laid her hand on Paul's arm, and looked up rather timidly into his eyes through the holes in her domino. His expression was very cold and hard, but it changed as he recognized her.
"At last," he said happily, as he led her away.