“Impetuosity,” she said, “means lack of consideration, of respect.”
“No, upon my soul,” he protested. “Will you not do me justice and think of my temptation; how short the time given me to speak my heart may be? It is that which has driven me to the impetuosity which has offended you.”
“You bring me,” she rejoined, with what seemed a lingering touch of resentment, “news of my friends’ fate, and, with the same breath, make love to me. Is that delicate consideration, Count? Where is your noble breeding?”
“I have erred,” he replied, with an affectation of humility. “It was my heart that got the better of my head. All I have to pray for now is that you will let me earn your forgiveness.”
She kept her eyes averted and made no reply, and he judged it best to leave the delicate question for the moment where it was.
“Tell me,” he continued, with a change of tone, “if the question be not offensive, this Lieutenant von Bertheim? He was your lover?”
She made a slight inclination of assent.
“Ah! I think I can read the story. Yes; romance is a fine illusion, but power is finer, and it is real. My dearest hope is that you will soon share mine.”
Still she was silent, for silence was safest then. He, inwardly exultant, accepted such favourable sign as that silence gave, and, where importunity was manifestly distasteful, forebore to follow up so quick upon his advantage.
“And this Captain Rollmar?” he asked, with a knowing curiosity, “He was the Lieutenant’s rival, eh?”