That aspect of things; to do her credit, had never occurred to Hedwig. She had seen herself, hopeless and alone, surrounded by the powerful, herself friendless. But, if there was no danger to save her family from? If her very birth, which had counted so far for so little, would bring her immunity and even safety?
She paused in front of the Countess. “What can I do?” she asked pitifully.
“That I dare not presume to say. I came because I felt—I can only say what, in your place, I should do.”
“I am afraid. You would not be afraid.” Hedwig shivered. “What would you do?”
“If I knew, Highness, that some one, for whom I cared, himself cared deeply enough to make any sacrifice, I should demand happiness. I rather think I should lose the world, and gain something like happiness.”
“Demand!” Hedwig said hopelessly. “Yes, you would demand it. I cannot demand things. I am always too frightened.”
The Countess rose. “I am afraid I have done an unwise thing,” she said, “If your mother knew—” She shrugged her shoulders.
“You have only been kind. I have so few who really care.”
The Countess curtsied, and made for the door. “I must go,” she said, “before I go further, Highness. My apology is that I saw you unhappy, and that I resented it, because—”
“Yes?”