"Because I have come too late," he whispered passionately.
"A man should not be too late, my dear Count; it is the worst of faults in war, in politics, in everything. You must bear the consequence of this fault--voilà tout." She played:
"Only one year beside thee,
As witness of thy bliss, I asked."
The Count gazed before him in silence.
"He takes it for earnest," thought Carla. "I must rouse him up again a little."
"Why should we not be friends?" she said, reaching out her right hand to him, whilst the left played:
"Return to me! and let me teach
How sweet the bliss of purest truth."
"Certainly, certainly!" cried the Count, imprinting a long, burning kiss on the offered hand; "why should we not be friends?"
"Friendship between pure souls is so sweet, is it not so? But the world is not pure. It loves to blacken all bright things. It requires a security. Give it the best possible under the circumstances. Marry!"
"And that is your advice to me?"