'I am afraid you are weak still from that wound,' she said, as she rose and approached him. 'Greswold assures me it has left no trace, but I am always afraid. And you look often so pale. Perhaps you exert yourself too much? Let the wolves be. Perhaps it is too cold for you? Would you like to go to the south? Do not think of me; my only happiness is to do whatever you wish.'
He kissed her hand with deep unfeigned emotion. 'I believe in angels since I knew you,' he murmured. 'No; I will not take you away from the winter and the people that you love. I am well enough. Greswold is right. I could not master those horses if I were not strong; be sure of that.'
'But I always fear that it is dull here for you?'
'Dull! with you? "Custom cannot stale her infinite variety." That was written in prophecy of your charm for me.'
'You will always flatter me! And I am not "various" at all; I am too grave to be entertaining. I am just the German house-mother who cares for the children and for you.'
He laughed.
'Is that your portrait of yourself? I think Carolus Duran's is truer, my grand châtelaine. When you are at Court the whole circle seems to fade to nothing before your presence. Though there are so many women high-born and beautiful there, you eclipse them all.'
'Only in your eyes! And you know I care nothing for courts. What I like is the life here, where one quiet day is the pattern of all the other days. If I were sure that you were content in it——'
'Why should you think of that?'
'My love, tell me honestly, do you never miss the world?'