She crossed her arms upon the back of the tall chair against which she had been leaning, and, bowing her head upon them, sobbed unrestrainedly. Louis came close to her, so close that his breath stirred her hair as he bent over her, but he did not touch her.
“After all,” he said, “I believe your best chance for becoming the woman God meant you to be, would be for me to take you in my arms now, this moment, and carry you off where no one could ever find you again.”
Pinkie listened with beating heart and thrilling from head to foot, while, amid her tears, a dainty smile stole out to play unseen about her rosy lips. Of course she had not the very slightest intention of allowing him to do anything of the sort, but it was delicious to hear him talk so.
“For I believe you love me, mein Röslein roth,” continued the voice above her bent head. “I believe you love me; yet I know that you will never marry me. You are not noble enough, yet, to understand the nobility of labor.”
“I certainly don’t understand the nobility of shoemaking,” cried Pinkie, roused to defend herself; “though, of course, it’s a very necessary trade, and one that some people must always follow; but why should you be one of them, Louis?” She laid her hand on his arm and looked beseechingly into his face. “It makes one’s hands black, and the leather smells so horribly,” she urged.
Louis turned away abruptly; he had not foreseen this turn of affairs.
“And you could be any thing, you know,” continued the temptress. “A doctor, for instance; that’s a noble profession, if you like, Louis; and even if you didn’t get very rich it wouldn’t matter, because,”—she blushed and hung her head.
Louis regarded her steadfastly, though his face was bloodless, and his eyes as sad as death.
“What would be the good?” he said gently. “If you will not marry the shoemaker, dear, you could never bring yourself to marry the shoemaker’s son.”
“I—I—don’t know,” said the girl softly.