He expressed no surprise at thus seeing her again so soon after their farewell, but, caressing her, led her to the great chair with arms by the fire, threw back her damp coat, and chafed her cold hands.
“I had to come,” she murmured, looking up at him in speechless joy. “You know that, do you not?”
“I have been thinking of you so it seems as if you had never left me,” he answered; his whole face and neck had flushed, and his narrowed short-sighted eyes had darkened till they looked black as he gazed at her. “You come between me and everything, Hélène, even my unfortunate country.”
“You must not go,” she said, with sudden energy, “it is quite impossible—do you hear?”
“Darling—I leave to-morrow morning. Presently I will take you home in a sledge and you will dream of me, knowing that I am happy in the thought of you, and in that I am doing my plain duty.”
As he spoke, with great tenderness and the gravity of an ardent enthusiast, he went on his knees, and taking her little cold slippered feet in his hands, rubbed them and held them nearer to the fire.
“What do I know of duty?” asked Hélène desperately. “I want to be happy.”
“You have never spoken like this before, my dearest.”
“I have never been so frightened before.”
“Frightened?”