‘You forgot nothing, and you looked—much too beautiful for men quickly to forgive me! No, dear, I do not flatter you; flattery would be absurd from me to you; I tell you the simple truth.’
‘I am glad,’ she said simply, ‘for I have nothing else to reward you with for all you have given to me.’
She spoke shyly, for she was always in awe of him a little. Her arm, uncovered to the shoulder as the loose folds of the sleeve fell away from it, stole timidly about his throat; in all her caresses there was the hesitation of a proud and delicate nature blent with the longing of an ardent love. Habit had not familiarised her with the relation in which he stood to her; the brutalising intimacy of marriage had not dwarfed or dulled her ideal and adoration of him. He was still much less her lover than her lord.
Othmar took the bright gold of her heavy hair in his hand, and drew it through his fingers.
‘On chasse de race,’ he said, with a smile. ‘You receive a great crowd as if you had been reared in a court from your babyhood.’
‘You told me what to do,’ she answered simply. ‘It seems very easy; besides, every one was so extremely kind.’
‘The kindness of society,’ thought Othmar, ‘the kiss of Judas!’
But he did not say so. Let her learn for herself what it was worth, he thought; the knowledge would come soon enough of itself.
Yseulte’s face grew grave as she sat lost in thought.