He looked at her, strode over to her, took her by the shoulders and turned her round, forcing her to look at him; slender and frail she quivered under his grasp.
The agony of question in his gaze met no response from hers which was full of nothing but blank, sad love.
He knew that if he asked her she would come—he knew that he could not ask her; “when the war is over I will marry her,” he thought, and stilled his heart with that.
Very gently he kissed her cold face.
“I must take you home,” he said.
“I will try to be brave,” replied Hélène.
They went together to the door; the darkness was thick with snow; he sent his servant for the sledge and they had another moment alone; but neither spoke.
Hélène felt suddenly very tired, almost drowsy; she was exhausted by her strong emotion to the point of apathy.
When the sledge came she stepped in obediently; there was a brief ride through the cold and the dark; his chilled lips on her chilled cheek, some stammering words and they had parted. She could hear the jingling of his sledge-bells as she returned to her room; she seemed to be in a world empty of everything but that one sound.
Aurora von Königsmarck looked from the door of her brilliantly lit room; she had gay words on her lips, but after glancing at the girl’s face she went back silently to her place by the perfumed fire.