lieve me, would see only excuse and hypocrisy in what I said. It was
so difficult also not to seem to accuse her, to charge her with grasping
at what I had freely offered, with having, as the phrase runs, designs
on me, with wishing to take power where she had been impelled to bestow
love. She pressed me with more questions, but still I found no answer.

"I can't do it," I was reduced to stammering. "I can't do it. He's not
the man. I must find another."

"Of the Prince's party?" she asked quickly.

"I don't know. I must find somebody; I must find somebody for myself."

I had sat down, and she was standing opposite to me.

"Find somebody for yourself?" she repeated slowly. "For yourself? What
do you mean by that, Augustin?"

"I must choose a man for myself."

"You mean--you mean without my help?"

I returned no answer, but sat looking at her with a dreary appealing
gaze. She was silent for a few moments; then she said suddenly:

"You haven't offered to kiss me."

I rose and kissed her on the lips; she stood still and did not kiss me.

"Thank you," she said. "I asked you to kiss me, and you've kissed me.
Thank you." She paused and added, "Have I grown so much older in a day?"

"It is not that. It's----"

"It is that," she said. She turned away and seated herself on the sofa,
where she sat with her eyes fixed on the ground. Then she gave a short
laugh. "I knew it would come," she said, "but this is--is rather
sudden."

I ran to her and threw myself on my knees by her. I lifted my arm and
put it round her neck and drew her face down to mine.

"No, no, no," I whispered passionately. "It's not that."

She let me kiss her now many times, and presently returned my kisses.
Her breath caught in gasps, and she clutched my hand imploringly.

"You do love me?" she murmured.

"Yes, yes."

"Then why--why? Why do you do this?" She drew back, looking in my face
in a bewildered way. Then a sudden brightness came into her eyes. "Is it
for me? Are you thinking of me?"

"No," said I in stubborn honesty, "I was not thinking of you."

"Don't!" she cried, for she did not believe me. "What do I care? I cared
once; I don't care now."

"It wasn't because of you," I repeated obstinately.

"Then tell me, tell me! Because I believe you still love me."

I made shift to tell her, but my stumbling words belittled the great
conception: I could not find the phrases that alone might convey the
truth to her; but I held on, try