"It is no prison for me," I said. "I do not long for deliverance. I cannot tell you how happy I have been to stay—how unhappy I shall be to leave."
"Captain," she said quickly, "you are not strong; you are no soldier yet."
"Yes; I must be off to the wars."
"And that suggests an idea," said she, thoughtfully, her chin upon her hand.
"Which is?"
"That my wealth is ill-fortune," she went on, with a sigh. "Men and women are fighting and toiling and bleeding and dying to make the world better, and I—I am just a lady, fussing, primping, peering into a looking-glass! I should like to do something, but they think I am too good—too holy."
"But it is a hard business—the labors and quarrels of the great world," I suggested.
"Well—it is God's business," she continued. "And am I not one of his children, and 'wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?' It was not too good for the man who said that."
"But what would you do?"
"I do not know. I suppose I can do nothing because—alas! because my father has bought my obedience with a million francs. Do you not see that I am in bondage?"