"Oh, no," said Max, "far from it. She is what you call a sister of mercy, and 'sister'—horrible word—is the only thing I am allowed to call her; she is a sealed casket without a handle."
"Oh, Max," cried his Countess, "don't do it, don't do it; it's wickedness! I didn't matter; but this—oh, Max, you don't know what a grief and disappointment you'll be to me if you——"
"Dearly beloved friend," interrupted Max, "do give me credit for a morality not very greatly inferior to your own. After all I am your pupil."
"But you can't marry her?" cried the Countess.
"Saving your presence, I mean to," asseverated Max.
"You! Where will the Crown go?"
"Charlotte will have three inches taken out of its rim and will fit it far better than I should—that is if anybody is so foolish as to object to my marrying where I please."
"Then in Heaven's name," cried the Countess, "why in all these years haven't you married me?"
Max smiled; they were back into easy relations once more. This was the lady with whom he had never spent a dull day.
"I did not wish to give you the pain of refusing me," said he. "Had I asked you you would have said that I was far too young to know my mind, and that you yourself were too old."