“In point of fact, one of your not uncommon waves of hatred for me is going over you,” replies he, resignedly. “I know that they are never to be accounted for.”
“No; I do not feel any special hatred for you to-night,” replies she, dispassionately. “But I can’t tell you what is not my secret. In point of fact, it is not really a secret at all, as Féodorovna will certainly proclaim it to you next time you meet her; but I can’t tell it.”
“It is a secret, and it is not a secret; and you may not tell it me, though Féodorovna may! What dark sayings are these?” cries he, gaily, perfectly indifferent as to her mystery, though diverted at the pomp with which she is investing it.
But his lady-love is not to be won to any answering lightness.
“I see nothing to laugh at,” she says; and even in the rooky twilight he can perceive her frown. “I pity them from the bottom of my heart. One of the greatest misfortunes possible—yes, I really think I do not exaggerate—one of the greatest misfortunes possible has fallen upon them.”
“Has the Candle begun to drop after all these years?” asks he, still incorrigibly flippant.
She quickens her pace, as if to get away from him.
“I have always known that there was something lacking in you.”
“I have always known that there were a great many things lacking in me,” interrupts he, mending his pace too.
“Even if I had not promised, nothing would induce me to tell to any one so unsympathetic——”