“Ah, madam ...” said he.
“Call me Count,” she returned, “respect my incognito.”
“Count be it, then,” he replied. “And let me implore that gallant gentleman to set forth at once on our enterprise.”
“Sit down beside me here,” she returned, patting the farther corner of the bench. “I will follow you in a moment. O, I am so tired—feel how my heart leaps! Where is your thief?”
“At his post,” replied Otto. “Shall I introduce him? He seems an excellent companion.”
“No,” she said, “do not hurry me yet. I must speak to you. Not but I adore your thief; I adore anyone who has the spirit to do wrong. I never cared for virtue till I fell in love with my Prince.” She laughed musically. “And even so, it is not for your virtues,” she added.
Otto was embarrassed. “And now,” he asked, “if you are anyway rested?”
“Presently, presently. Let me breathe,” she said, panting a little harder than before.
“And what has so wearied you?” he asked. “This bag? And why, in the name of eccentricity, a bag? For an empty one, you might have relied on my own foresight; and this one is very far from being empty. My dear Count, with what trash have you come laden? But the shortest method is to see for myself.” And he put down his hand.