Sydney's face looked white in the moonlight. She assented by a motion of the head.
"Even when I knew—you—"
Sydney gazed down at the scintillant water. Von Rittenheim did not turn to her, and went on, steadily,—
"—and admired your beauty and your sweetness—for-rgive me that I say these things so baldly—and wondered at the r-responsibilities you assumed, and at the care you took of every needing person who came near you—even fr-rom you whom I admired and—whom I admired with all my str-rength, I did not learn the lesson that was before my eyes."
"How can you say all this to me, Baron? You must not."
"You will do me the justice to listen just a pair of minutes longer. Now I see it all clearly; now I have a purpose in my life. It is to make you look upon me with r-respect,—with so much r-respect that you will for-rget that on one of those turned-over pages of my life there is a blot."
"And you have chosen to seek your salvation through work! It is a fine spirit, Baron, and the American gospel—though perhaps you may not like it the more on that account."
"You are an American."
Sydney blushed and laughed,—her sweet, rich laugh. She was glad to be a little farther away from tragedy.
"Shall I tell you my plan? You will see how I am practical! My salvation lies in the unpoetic shape of—cattle."