“I don’t deserve,” he said self-reproachfully, “that you should be so forgiving.”
“A woman,” she replied—and as she spoke her eyes rested on him with a sort of wistful trust—“can afford to overlook in a man slight failings in consideration of qualities she respects.”
He coloured a little at the implied compliment.
“You are good to say so,” he murmured.
“Oh,” she said lightly, “it is nothing. You are a soldier; I am sure you are brave and true and loyal, that you have a sense of duty. What is a moment’s carelessness to set against that? There! Perhaps I have said too much for the proprieties, but I can’t bear to see you weighed down by unnecessary self-reproach. Now you must go and shoot away with a clear conscience.”
Respecting her motive for frankness, he only gave her a grateful bow.
“I am not going to shoot this morning,” he informed her. “I have been lucky enough to find a companion.”
“Ah!” She turned quickly to him with a look of something more than curiosity. “Here in these wilds?”
“Not exactly here,” he laughed. “But in Kulhausen last evening. An old friend of mine. I am going now to fetch him over to my gipsy camp.”
“A brother officer?”