Wilfrid’s grim smile implied that he would; and at this the Duchess’s face assumed a look of dismay, for she knew Wilfrid to be the only man qualified for the task required of him.
“Why do you ask this—this silly thing?” she faltered.
“That I may return home with the knowledge that I have kissed the fairest lady in Russia.”
There was silence for a brief interval, during which the Duchess seemed to become reconciled to the enormity of being kissed.
“And nothing but a kiss will content you?”
“I will add a second condition; you must at the same time tell me your name, your rank, your history, and how it happened that I could save your life, as you say I did, and yet retain no remembrance of the event.”
“To gain my ends I must consent to your humour. Thus then do I pledge my word. Rid the Czar of his wicked Ministry, and”—her eyes drooped, and a beautiful colour stole over her cheek—“and ... you ... shall ... take ... a ... kiss ... from ... me.”
“Pardon me. There must be no taking on my part. The kiss must be freely given by you.”
“You are a hard taskmaster,” she smiled. “Well, it shall be as you wish.”