“You seem very doubtful,” said her mother. “Have you never asked yourself these interesting questions? How are you to retain your influence over men if you have no idea of the means by which you first attracted their attention—their admiration?”
“I don’t want to obtain influence over men,” said Nadia, in a choking voice. “My own life has not been so successful that I need make any more efforts to direct others.”
“That exactly proves the truth of what I was saying,” said Madame O’Malachy. “Tell me,” she added suddenly—“do you still love this young man?”
Nadia dropped on her knees by the bedside, and hid her face in the coverlet. “It is cruel to ask me,” she sobbed, “when he is going to marry the Princess of Mœsia; but I do.”
“I hear that he looks most unhappy, and appears to loathe the engagement into which he has undoubtedly been forced,” said her mother. Nadia raised her clasped hands in wild appeal.
“Oh, don’t tell me that!” she cried. “Let me feel at least that he is happy, whatever becomes of me. I pray every day that they may love each other, and that their marriage may be a blessing to Thracia and to themselves.”
“You bear no malice against him, then?”
“How could I? He is doing what I felt must be right.”
“You would not wish him to be punished? If you knew of any danger——”
“Oh, mother!” she looked up with a cry. “I would walk barefoot to Bellaviste to warn him, even if he was to be married to-morrow. You have not joined in any plot to injure him?”