She made a slight movement, perhaps the checking of a shiver: that was the only break in her impassivity.
“The other,” his tone had fallen to an unlooked-for softness now, and his manner was almost a caress: “the other is—forgive me, gracious lady—that I could not bear to give you up to another man’s keeping.” The speech brought no sign of acknowledgment from her. He drew a step closer. “You may understand, Fräulein, and pardon?” he added earnestly.
Now she looked him full in the face and there seemed nothing in her eyes but scorn. “I can at least understand,” she replied.
“And not forgive?”
“Forgive!” she echoed, with imperious yet half-amused disdain, “that is scarcely a word to be used between us, Count. You pay but a bad compliment to your hospitality if, after so short an acquaintance, you find that necessary.”
“I trust it may not be,” he rejoined. “But, surely, where you are concerned, Fräulein, the matter of mere time can hardly influence the warmth of the feelings, and therefore of the expressions, of those who have the privilege of your society.”
His meaning, though plain enough, was guardedly couched, more so than could manifestly have been usual in one whose manner was wont to be bluff and direct; but, in truth the outward coldness of her personality repulsed him, in spite of the mad desire to break through that icy rampart.
“I am your guest, Count,” she returned, with a quiet, confident dignity. “As such I may claim at least respect from you.”
The impatience of one who had known little thwarting got the better of his tact. “My one desire in the world,” he declared, with a touch of passion, “is that you shall be much more to me than my guest.”
She drew back proudly from his importunity. “And my desire is,” she retorted, “to cease to be the guest of one who abuses the position of a host.”