“Gentle? That depends!” said Marsa.
After separating from the Prince, she returned, silent and abstracted, with Vogotzine. She saw Andras depart with a mournful sadness, and a sudden longing to have him stay—to protect her, to defend her, to be there if Michel should come.
It was already growing dark when they reached home. Marsa ate but little at dinner, and left Vogotzine alone to finish his wine.
Later, the General came, as usual, to bid his niece goodnight. He found Marsa lying upon the divan in the little salon.
“Don’t you feel well? What is the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“I feel a little tired, and I was going to bed. You don’t care to have me keep you company, do you, my dear?”
Sometimes he was affectionate to her, and sometimes he addressed her with timid respect; but Marsa never appeared to notice the difference.
“I prefer to remain alone,” she answered.
The General shrugged his shoulders, bent over, took Marsa’s delicate hand in his, and kissed it as he would have kissed that of a queen.