"In fact," added he, "it was the first time I had loved, the very first."
"The first?" echoed the voice in the dark.
The strong man trembled like an aspen leaf. Those two words coming from that dark, motionless figure, sitting at some distance, seemed to be a voice from the tomb, an echo from the past; that past which never buries its dead. To get over his increasing nervousness the Baron began to speak with greater volubility:
"In my early youth, or rather in my childhood I should say," added he, "I did love once——"
"Once?" repeated the voice.
The Baron started again and stopped. Was it Anya's mother who spoke, or was there an echo in that room? Still, he went on:
"Yes, once I loved, or, at least, thought myself in love."
"Thought?" added the voice.
That repetition was getting unbearable; anyhow, he tried not to heed it.
"Well, Countess, it was only a childish fancy, a boy's infatuation; at sixteen, I was spoony on a girl two years younger than myself, just about the age my Anya is now. Fate parted us; I grieved a while; but, since I saw your daughter, I understood that I had never loved before, no, never!"