The end of the terrace walk had been reached, and as with the last words they turned, it brought them face to face. Had he offended her? He could not tell. The cold, proud look in her face made it seem almost incredible that it could have been she who had spoken with such feeling and unburdening of the heart a moment before. Just for a few instants she made no reply; perhaps the mere expression of his wish scarcely called for one. The silence left him in exquisite suspense. So intent was he on her next words that he did not realise she lingered, almost stopped. Countess Minna and her companion had turned at the same time and were walking now in front. At last the reply came.
“You are bold,”—the voice was exquisitely low—“but in you I cannot blame boldness. It is,” here by an effort she lightened her tone, “it is perhaps as well we can both realise that beyond boldness it is madness, boldness to me, and madness to aught beside.”
“Not madness,” he protested, “to dream of fighting for happiness, for——”
“Yes,” she interrupted quickly, almost peremptorily; “madness to imagine and cruelty to suggest it. Ah!” she gave a shudder, “why are right things so easily forgotten, wrong ones never? It is late; I must go in. The dear Chancellor,” she laughed, “will be scandalised—or worse. You are leaving Waldenthor?”
“I never said so, Princess.”
“But you are going?”
“Not unless your highness orders me.”
“Or somebody more powerful than I. Yes; you had better go. The romance, the episode is over; would you wait for the anti-climax?”
“Is it over, Princess?” His voice vibrated with tenderness now, since he might be bold.
“We have arrived at the best ending,” she answered. “Do not wait for an unpleasant one.”