The words were gravely spoken; tinged, perhaps, with a rather deeper feeling than a mere phrase of compliment. Ruperta laughed pleasantly. Her new life and its adventures were breaking down her old reserve.
“Hardly pain, I should hope, Count. Although parting is seldom a matter of indifference; it involves either relief or regret.”
“And here? Relief, you cannot deny it, on one side; regret, I cordially own it, on the other.”
“Relief cannot be our feeling at leaving one who has been our friend in distress,” she objected. “Who has known how to turn a vexatious delay into a pleasant visit.”
“If,” he said, bending forward insinuatingly and speaking in a more earnest tone, “I have succeeded in doing that, I am splendidly rewarded. You, Fräulein, in your distress and anxiety, cannot realize the brightness with which this accident, unlucky and yet lucky, has illuminated my rude, lonely existence.”
She seemed to think he had expressed himself warmly enough, for she replied almost coldly, “It is surely your own choice, this rude, lonely life as you call it. Although I dare say an occasional guest makes an agreeable change.”
The blue eyes were fixed on her in a curious admiration. With glorious beauty such as hers, coldness could only be provocative to a man of the Count’s temperament.
“May I see Fräulein Minna?” she asked. “It is surely time we made ready for leaving.”
“Scarcely, I hope,” he returned, and something in his manner seemed to suggest to her that he might design, she knew not why, to delay their departure.
“Please, Count,” she continued, more insistently, “let me find the Fräulein, or send her to me.”