"Oh, Karl!" she protested, holding out her hands to silence him.
"The day we kissed each other," he went on, speaking so quietly that it seemed almost a whisper. "We were almost children then. I was a poor little chap, who gave drawing lessons to Herman and his sisters. You were a little waif, fed cake and tea at the millionaire's table. There we met, a beggar boy and a beggar girl, thrown together in a palace. We looked at each other, and I think we understood."
Olga covered her burning face with her hands, and Karl went on:
"We kissed each other, quite innocently; just one kiss, the memory of which has almost faded."
"Yes, Karl, faded," Olga cried eagerly. "We have grown up sensibly and we never mentioned it."
Karl seemed not to hear her interruption. He went on:
"You became Herman's wife and went to live in a palace. I found you there when I came back from Paris, still fond of you, but determined never to tell you so, and when I met you again I, too, was somewhat changed. Still, when our eyes met, Olga, it was with the same look of the two poor, longing little beggars of the years ago. But we did not kiss again."
"Why not?" Olga breathed.
"Your husband and I are the best of friends," Karl said. "Though we have met hundreds of times, you and I, we have not mentioned it."
Olga turned to him gratefully and held out her hand to clasp his.