She freed herself, and he fumbled for his fallen candle. He struck a match. The sputtering blue flame lit her white, languorous face, her fallen hair, her heaving breast. It went out. He struck another and the wick blazed up.
"Look at me, dear!" he said. "Tell me in the light. Will you marry me?"
"I can not answer—now."
"Why? Don't you love me?"
"I—in so short a time, how could I? Let us go now. I don't know myself—nor—nor you!"
She was trembling, and he noted it with a pang of compunction.
"To-morrow, sweetheart? Will you give me my answer then?"
"Yes!" It was almost inaudible.
"At the Foreign Minister's ball to-morrow night? I'll come to you there, dearest. I—"