“Do you wish to know anything about him?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” said she, striving to speak frigidly; but there was a piteous tremble in her low tones. “The man has dis—What am I saying? It is sufficient to say that he is not on terms with his family.”
“So he told me,” said I, struggling on my own part to keep back the burning words within me.
The countess looked at me—looked again. I saw now that this was one of the great sorrows of her sorrowful life. She felt that to be consistent she ought to wave aside the subject with calm contempt; but it made her heart bleed. I pitied her; I felt an odd kind of affection for her already. The promise I had given to Eugen lay hard and heavy upon me.
“What did he tell you?” she asked, at last; and I paused ere I answered, trying to think what I could make of this opportunity. “Do you know the facts of the case?” she added.
“No; he said he would write.”
“Would write!” she echoed, suspending her work, and fixing me with her eyes. “Would write—to whom?”
“To me.”
“You correspond with him?” There was a tremulous eagerness in her manner.