"Count, you look like a paladin when you scowl; but scowling never induces anything but wrinkles. That is why we women frown so seldom. We smile. But let us return to your query. Supposing I had accepted your declarations seriously; supposing you had offered me marriage in that burst of gratitude; supposing I had committed the folly of becoming a countess: what a position I should be in to-day!"
"I do not understand,"—perplexedly.
"No?"—shrugging. She held forth a gloved arm. "Have you forgotten how gallantly you used to button my gloves?"
"A thousand pardons! My mind was occupied with the mystery of your long supposition." He took the arm gracefully and proceeded to slip the pearl buttons through their holes. (Have you ever buttoned the gloves of a handsome woman? I have. And there is a subtile thrill about the proceeding which I can not quite define. Perhaps it is the nearness of physical beauty; perhaps it is the delicate scent of flowers; perhaps it is the touch of the cool, firm flesh; perhaps it is just romance.) The gaze which she bent upon his dark head was emotional; yet there was not the slightest tremor of arm or fingers. It is possible that she desired him to observe the steadiness of her nerves. "What did you mean?" he asked.
"What did I mean?"—vaguely. Her thought had been elsewhere.
"By that supposition."
"Oh! I mean that my position, had I married you, would have been rather anomalous to-day." She extended the other arm. "You are in love."
"In love?" He looked up quickly.
"Decidedly; and I had always doubted your capacity for that sentiment."
"And pray tell me, with whom am I in love?"