“Why?” Baby is a little at fault. She is rather distraite after Count Von Niederwalluf’s last sweet nothing, and she has not an answer ready, so she speaks the truth once in a way:
“I think Carlton Conway was out on the balcony with Zai, mamma.”
“I wish you would not call him Carlton Conway. How often have I told you that it is very bad form for girls to speak familiarly of men,” Lady Beranger rejoins in a harsh whisper, then she moves off, much to Baby’s satisfaction.
“Miladi looks angry,” Von Niederwalluf murmurs softly. “She does not frown because—Ich liebe dich?”
Baby has never been good at languages, or at anything, in fact, that her numerous governesses have toiled to cram into her pretty little head, but
“Ich liebe dich!”
She understands these three little words quite well. She has seen them in a little book called “Useful English and German Phrases for Tourists.”
“Nein,” she coos tenderly, “and if she was angry it would make no difference, for—Ich liebe dich—too—you know.”
Meanwhile the moon has grown fuller and rounder and yellower, and is right prodigal of its beams—and no wonder—for its tender glances, satiated as they must be with mortal beauty, have seldom fallen on a fairer thing than this girl who, Belgravian born and bred, has braved that autocrat of her class, the convenances, and with a long dark cloak thrown over her snowy ball-dress, and a large hat hiding the glory of her hair, has stolen out amidst the fresh cool foliage of the square, to talk to her lover.
A fair young girl, with a pure soft face, that owns a magnificent pair of eyes, big and grey and black lashed, a little straight nose, and a mouth sweet to distraction. Her hat has fallen back, and her hair looks all afire with ruddy gleam as the bright moonlight touches it, and even through the long loose cloak the perfection of her tall, slender figure is visible.