Erika coughed slightly. "Good heavens! perhaps he understood, and will save me from replying," she thought.
But no, he did not save her from replying.
"Well, Countess Erika?" he began, after a short pause, gently, but very firmly.
"Wha--what?" she stammered.
"Will you be my wife?"
She gasped for breath: never could she have believed that she should find it so hard to refuse an offer. But accept it--no; something within her rebelled against the thought--she could not.
"N--no. I am very sorry," she stammered, every pulse throbbing wildly. She was terribly agitated as she glanced timidly up at him. Not a muscle in his face moved.
"I was prepared for this," he murmured.
"Thank God, he does not care very much!" she thought, taking a long breath; and the next moment--nay, even that very moment--she was vexed that he did 'not care very much.'
They had reached the railway bridge, beneath which they were wont to turn into the grand avenue for a final gallop. For a moment she contemplated sacrificing to her rejected suitor this gallop, the crown and glory of their daily ride. She reined in her horse.