Waldemar cast a quick, annoyed, contemptuous glance upon him. "You are wonderfully careful over her interests," he said, sharply, "but I never heard that having her on your lips, Harry, ever did a woman much good. Pass me that whisky, Conrad, will you?"
The next morning, however, though he "disclaimed" her, Waldemar, about ten, took his stick, whistled his dog, and walked down to Kensington Gardens. Under the beeches just budding their first leaves, he saw what he expected to see—Valérie L'Estrange. She turned—even at that distance he thought he saw the longs yeux bleus flash and sparkle—dropped the biscuits she was giving the ducks to the tender mercies of Julius Adolphus, and came to meet him. Spit, the little Skye he had given her, welcoming him noisily.
"Spit is as pleased to see you as I am," said Valérie, laughing. "We have both been wondering whether you would come this morning. I am so glad you have, for I have been reading your 'Pollnitz Memoirs,' and want to talk to you about them. You know I can talk to no one as I can to you."
"You do me much honor," said Falkenstein, rather formally. He was wondering in his mind whether she had refused Forester or not.
"What a cold, distant speech! It is very unkind of you to answer me so. What is the matter with you, Count Waldemar?"
She always called him by the title he had dropped in English society; she had a fervent reverence for his historic antécédens; and besides, as she told him one day, "she liked to call him something no one else did."
"Matter with me? Nothing at all, I assure you," he answered, still distantly.
"You are not like yourself, at all events," persisted Valérie. "You should be kind to me. I have so few who are."
The tone touched him; he smiled, but did not speak, as he sat down by her poking up the turf with his stick.
"Count Waldemar," said Valérie, suddenly, brushing Spit's hair off his bright little eyes, "do tell me; hasn't something vexed you?"