"Because we pretend to be what we are not, honest aristocrats."
"My dear, you are combining what is rarely put together in life; for you see aristocratic people are rarely honest, and honest folk are seldom aristocrats."
"But we are neither," she said quietly.
"The more renown for us that we appear to be both," he cried, laughing, "and that no one suspects us. My dear Leonore seems to have an attack of melancholy to-day, which I have never witnessed in her before, and which renders me suspicious."
"Suspicious?" she asked, and, for the first time, turned her head slightly, fixing her eyes with a questioning glance upon the old man who sat beside her, nodding and smiling. "Suspicious! I don't know what you mean."
"Well, I really did not intend to say anything definite," he replied, smiling. "I only meant that it is strange to see you suddenly so depressed by your position, which hitherto so greatly amused you. And, because this seemed strange, I sought—searching you know is a trait of human nature—I sought the cause of this new mood."
"Do you think you have found it?" she asked carelessly.
"Perhaps so," he said, smiling. "The most clever and experienced woman may be deluded by love, and suffer her reason to be clouded by sweet, alluring visions."
"You mean that I have done so?"
"Yes, that is what I mean; but it gives me no further anxiety, for I have confidence that your reason will soon conquer your heart. So I do not grudge you the rare satisfaction of enjoying the bliss of being loved. Only I warn you not to take the matter seriously and strive to make the dream a reality."