Andromache flashed him a joyous smile, and he bent forward, and held both her hands to his mouth.
“I love you, I love you,” he murmured, fondly.
“Rudolph,” she said, and dropped her eyes.
Kyria Karapolos thought proper to strike this growing heat chill with a sound commonplace, by asking him if he had much land in Austria, and what was the exact amount of his rent-roll.
“I believe it amounts to five thousand, but my steward manages everything for me. You may be assured, however, that I have quite enough for Andromache and myself,” answered Rudolph, simply.
This drove him to describe Rapoldenkirchen, and he necessarily rhapsodised over its loveliness, and the happiness that awaited Andromache in that shadowed home. And there in front of him was the clock summoning him from heaven; it already pointed cruelly to the stroke of four. He stood up and announced his hurry, shook hands with Kyria Karapolos, and held a moment Andromache’s slim fingers, looking sorrowfully into the shining March-violets he felt an irresistible impulse to kiss.
“You will think of me every day, dear?”
“I will, Rudolph.”
“Whisper. Am I very dear to you?”
“Oh, Rudolph, I love you,” she cried, and broke down in simple passion.