“And why not?” he demanded, hardly keeping down his chagrin. “There can be but one reason. Your love is, or you fancy it is, given to another man. Tell me if it is so,” he added sharply, as she kept silence.
“It is useless to discuss that,” she answered, meeting his persistency with a touch of dignity. “You must be content with the knowledge that what you wish cannot come to pass.”
“Content!” he echoed. “Content is scarcely the doctrine to preach to me. You might know that, Philippa, and my character better than to suggest it. I do not take your refusal, for it is not logical; it is—I know, though you may not—it is against your best interests. No,” he continued, with the set tone of a determined will, “I am not the man to be content to let another snatch the prize I covet. You will reconsider your answer, Philippa? Yes?”
She shook her head. “No, Count.”
He laughed. “Then let your lover look to himself. He will need great resources and the Devil’s luck into the bargain who enters the lists with Aubray Zarka.”
She looked at him, half fascinated by the power of his remarkable personality. But she did not falter when he held out his hand.
“I do not despair, Philippa,” he said with mock deference.
“I should be sorry to think you did,” she returned, meeting his eyes boldly.
“Ah!” he rejoined, understanding the words as she meant them. “We shall see.” Against her will he kept her hand in his. “It is a pity,” he added suddenly, “that, instead of your uncivil preserver, the gallant Lieutenant Von Tressen did not come along and shoot the boar. That shot would have paid for the other. Is the finger healed?”
He bent down as though to examine her hand, and suddenly, before she could prevent him, pressed it to his lips. Then he laughed again. “Don’t be offended, mein Fräulein; I shall kiss your lips before this day week,” he said.