"Again I fear I have offended you," he said; "but believe me, I had not the least intention of doing so. I think at least you should know me well enough for that."
"But you should not have followed me at all," she said, her womanly wit showing her that if she wished to escape she must beg the question and attack the side issue. "It was not kind of you."
"Not kind?" he cried. "But why should it not be? I cannot see that I have done anything wrong; and, even if I have, will you not be merciful?"
Large tears had risen in her eyes; her manner was firm, nevertheless. It seemed to Browne later on, when he recalled all that had happened on that memorable morning, as if two emotions, pride and love, were struggling in her breast for the mastery.
"Will you not forgive me?" he asked, more humbly than he had probably ever spoken to a human being in his life before.
"If you will promise not to repeat the offence," she replied, with a feeble attempt at a smile. "Remember, if I do forgive you, I shall expect you to adhere to your word."
"You do not know how hard it is for me to promise," said Browne; "but since you wish it, I will do as you desire. I promise you I will not follow you again."
"I thank you," she answered, and held out her hand. "I must go now, or madame will be wondering what has become of me. Good-bye, Mr. Browne."
"But do you mean that I am never to see you again?" he inquired in consternation.
"For the moment that is a question I cannot answer," she replied. "I have told you before that my time is not my own; nor do I know how long we shall remain in Paris."