“You love that man, Fraulein?” he asked in German, which she spoke more fluently than French.
“I do,” she said, simply, hardly troubled by the impertinence of the question.
“And there is no chance—none—for me?”
“I do not understand you, Herr Ehrenstein.”
Did she even hear him, as she stared out with that intense look strained beyond her prison through the bright streets traversed by Gustav?
“I, too, love you, Fraulein. I would die for you. You have taken from me my rest, my happiness, my self-respect. Everything I yield to you—honour, manhood, independence. Gladly will I accept slavery at your bidding. I care for nothing but you. Is there no hope for me? Your father will approve my suit.—He is banished.”
Inarime gazed scorn and loathing upon him. There were hardly words strong enough with which to reject such an offer, so made and at such a time.
“Leave me, Herr Ehrenstein. You force me abruptly to terminate my stay under your uncle’s roof.”
She turned her back upon him, and when he broke out into fierce and incoherent apologies, she swept past him out of the room.