"Of a—a woman's head against the moon."
"Monsieur, for a realist you are astonishingly romantic. Oh, you see I was right! You do belong in a book."
"You, also," he said, scarcely recognising his own voice. "Men—in books—do well to risk all for one word, one glance from you; men—in books—do well to die for you, who reign without a peer in all romance——"
"Monsieur," she faltered.
But he had found his voice—or one something like it—and he said: "You are right to rebuke me; romance is the shadow, life the substance; and you live; and as long as you live, living men must love you; as I love you, Countess of Semois."
"Oh," she breathed, tremulously, "oh,—you think that? You think I am the Countess of Semois? And that is why——"
For a moment her wide eyes hardened, then flashed brilliant with tears.
"Is that your romance, monsieur?—the romance of a Countess! Is your declaration for mistress or servant?—for the Countess or for her secretary—who sometimes makes her gowns, too? Ah, the sorry romance! Your declaration deserved an audience more fitting——"
"My declaration was made a week ago! The moon and you were audience enough. I love you."
"Monsieur, I—I beg you to release my hand——"