“Ours was a foolish infatuation,” she answered with an effort. “It is best that we should both of us forget.”
“Forget!” I cried. “But I can never forget you, Yolande. You are my love. You are all the world to me.”
Her eyes were grave, and I saw that tears stood in them.
“No,” she protested quietly; “do not say that. I cannot be any more to you than other women whom you meet daily. Besides, I know well that in the diplomatic service marriage is a serious drawback to any save an ambassador.”
“When a man is in love as I am with you, dearest, he throws all thoughts of his career to the winds; personal interests are naught where true love is concerned.”
“You must not—nay, you shall not—wreck your future on my account,” she declared in a low, intense voice. “It is not just either to yourself or to the Englishwoman who loves you.”
“Why do you taunt me with that, Yolande?” I asked reproachfully. “I do not love her. I have never truly loved her. I was lonely after you had gone out of my life, and she was amusing,—that was all.”
“And now you find me equally amusing—eh?” she remarked, with just a touch of bitter sarcasm.
“Why should you be jealous of her?” I asked. “You might just as well be jealous of Sibyl, Lord Barmouth’s daughter.”
“With the latter you are certainly on terms of most intimate friendship,” she answered with a smile. “I really wonder that I did not object to her in the days long ago.”