He held out his hand, and Franz von Kreuzenach grasped it in a hard grip.
“She is well?” he asked, with deep emotion.
“Well and happy,” said Brand.
“That is good.”
The young German was immensely embarrassed, absurdly self-conscious and shy.
“In Lille,” he said, “I had the honour of her friendship.”
“She told me,” answered Brand. “I saw some of your songs in her room.”
“Yes, I sang to her.”
Franz von Kreuzenach laughed, awkwardly. Then suddenly a look of something like fear—certainly alarm—changed his expression.
“I must beg of you to keep secret any knowledge of my—my friendship—with that lady. She acted—rashly. If it were known, even by my father, that I did—what I did—my honour, perhaps even my life, would be unsafe. You understand, I am sure.”