“But what?”
“Well,” answered Netty, after a pause, “you see for yourself—we have not gone.”
“It is a very selfish hope—but I hope you will stay,” said Prince Martin. He looked down at her, and the thought of her possible departure caught him like a vise. He was a person of impulse, and (which is not usual) his impulse was as often towards good as towards evil. She looked, besides looking pretty, rather small and frail, and dependent at that moment, and all the chivalry of his nature was aroused. It was only natural that he should think that she had all the qualities he knew Wanda to possess, and, of course, in an infinitely higher degree. Which is the difference between one's own sister and another person's. She was good, and frank, and open. The idea of concealment between himself and her was to be treated with scorn.
“I will tell you,” he said, “if at any time there is any reason why you cannot stay.”
“But why should there be any reason—” she began, and a quick movement that he made to look round and see who was in sight, who might be within hearing, made her stop.
“Oh! I do not want you to tell me anything. I do not want to know,” she said hurriedly. Which was the absolute truth; for politics bored her horribly.
He looked at her with a laugh, and only loved her all the more, for persisting in her ignorance of those matters which are always better left to men.
“I almost missed,” he said gayly, “an excellent opportunity of holding my tongue.”
“Only——” began Netty, as if in continuation of her protest against being told anything.
“Only what?”