“Pardon me, Baroness; we differ on that point. I mean to try.”
The Baroness sat nonplussed for a time. “After all,” she murmured, “eleven years may bring about many changes.”
“Quite so. It is natural that our hopes with regard to any such changes should differ, but we will not quarrel over that.”
“You are inducing me to betray my trust, Count.”
“I would not do such a thing for the world, Baroness. Only remind me, and I will see that the Queen relieves you formally of your duties before our marriage takes place. You shall not be forced to countenance it in your official capacity. As a private friend of both parties, of course——”
“I am overwhelmed,” said the Baroness, not in allusion to Cyril’s considerate offer, as he opened the door for her. “I could never have suspected this of you, Count.”
“Ah, Baroness, we live and learn—some of us. Others live and love.”
And he went back into the office to laugh quietly over the disdainful pose of the Baroness’s head and the contemptuous swish of her skirts as she swept away from him. He had no fear that she would betray him, or even attempt to prejudice Ernestine against him. The whole affair was a crime that admitted of no palliation—but the good lady had a tender corner for him in her heart.
To his great relief, Cyril found that no further interviews were demanded of him that night, for he was so tired that he made no objection when Dr Danilovics arrived, in a towering rage, to conduct him home. The doctor’s lectures on the proper treatment and correct behaviour of invalids during the drive back to Cyril’s house might have edified a whole medical school, but they were lost on their present auditor, for Cyril was fast asleep in the corner of the carriage when he reached his destination.
“Take charge of him,” said the doctor wrathfully, delivering the invalid over to Paschics and Dietrich; “I wash my hands of him. What can a self-respecting medical man do with a patient who acts like a madman, and expects nature to cure him—especially when nature does it?”