“It is; I have many, and my family choose to call me Sigismund,” was the laughing answer.
“I’ll never call you so; you shall be Karl, the courier, all your life to me,” cried Helen, still unable to meet the ardent eyes before her.
“Good; I like that well; for it assures me that all my life I shall be something to you, my heart. What next?”
“When I asked if you were the baron, you denied it.”
“Pardon! I simply said my name was Hoffman. You did not ask me point blank if I was the baron; had you done so, I think I should have confessed all, for it was very hard to restrain myself this morning.”
“No, not yet; I have more questions;” and Helen warned him away, as it became evident that he no longer considered restraint necessary.
“Who is Ludmilla?” she said, sharply.
“My faith, that is superb!” exclaimed the baron, with a triumphant smile at her betrayal of jealousy. “How if she is a former love?” he asked, with a sly look at her changing face.
“It would cause me no surprise; I am prepared for anything.”
“How if she is my dearest sister, for whom I sent, that she might welcome you and bring the greetings of my parents to their new daughter?”