She reflected with cold wonder that she had once thought herself in love with Felix—Felix, whose color had never changed, whose breath had never quickened at her coming—whose manner to her was as his manner to Miss Forester, civil, pleasant, neutral. She could not look at Denzil without becoming aware of his intense consciousness of her look. He was her slave. He reddened and paled, smiled or frowned, as she willed. Nadia was a young woman who loved her own way. Her intelligence had always warned her that with Felix she would not have had it. She had the same instinctive knowledge that she would be able to twist Denzil round her finger.
Now, she knew not why he suffered, but she could well see that he was suffering. A new feeling, of tender pity, a mother-feeling, took possession of her heart. She was at bottom a very simple-minded, domestic young woman, impulsive, and a little spoilt, but wholly feminine.
"Something is wrong with you," she said. "And I am grieved if you grieve."
He took her hand, and, hardly knowing what he was about, held it to his lips. The girl smilingly allowed it. The misery of thwarted passion rushing through his veins filled the touch of his lips with fire. As he held and kissed her small, soft hand, the contented smile faded from her face, her cheeks flushed, her eyes grew deep and troubled. She trembled, and made an effort to draw back her hand. He let it go at once, and in a kind of despair, resting his elbows on his knees, dropped his head into his hands.
"Oh," said Nadia, breathlessly, "what is it? Tell me, tell me, you make me so unhappy."
"To-day is the last," he brought out, thickly. "I am counting each second of it. My friends will arrive in an hour or two. We shall leave for England in a day or two, and you—you will forget me, the poor wretch who all his life will never be able to forget you."
She gave a little delicious sigh. "Ah," she said, "then you will feel it too. I thought you would be so glad to have your own countrywomen with you—to turn your back upon this desert place."
He lifted his head, showing her his eyes suffused with tears. "Desert!" he said. "This is the garden, and the King's daughter. I am the unfortunate stranger whom your bounty has succored. Now he must be driven forth again into the wilderness."
She laughed, with an assumption of lightness. "Wilderness! That is very unlike Miss Forester's description of England! She says it is the fairest place on earth. I have always"—her sweet, emotional voice dropped to its lowest notes—"I have always wished that I could go there. It is a land of peace, of safety, as well as beauty."
It was as if the voice, the words, touched a spring. He turned to her. "Come," he articulated, almost inaudibly; and his craving sounded in his broken voice. "Come to England—with me—Nadia."