Her eyes had fallen under his, and she felt that she was trembling as she stood in front of him and answered his questions as mechanically as a stupid child.
“I beg your pardon,” he said again; and he seemed to grow paler still as he stood there irresolute.
“Do you wish to see my sister alone?” he then said. “I don’t understand. Do you wish me to stay or to go?”
“I wish you to go,” she said, rallying a little as the thought occurred to her that Martha might return. “Your sister is expecting me. I came with the understanding that you were to be away.”
A light broke over him, but it cast a sudden shadow on his face.
“You are, then, the princess of whom she has spoken to me,” he said. “I beg your pardon.”
“I am Sophia Rutledge,” she said. “Martha believes me to be a princess, and I let her think it. Some one in the atelier told her so. What will you tell her now?”
“Exactly what you wish.”
“Say nothing. Let her keep her delusion. Her friendship is dear to me; I do not wish it turned to hate.”