an he, though he had just
told her that he was twenty-five, and four years her senior.

She accepted the violets which he had hurriedly bought for her as he
came through the Langenmarkt, but she would not say that she loved him,
because she did not. She was in most ways quite a matter-of-fact person,
and she was of an honest mind. She said she would think about it. She
did not love him now--she knew that. She could not say that she would
not learn to love him some day, but there seemed no likelihood of it at
present. Then he would shoot himself! He would certainly shoot himself
unless she learnt to love him! And she asked "When?" and they both
laughed. They changed the subject, but after a time they came back to
it; which is the worst of love--one always comes back to it.

Then suddenly he began to assume an air of proprietorship, and burst
into a hundred explanations of what fears he felt for her; for her
happiness and welfare. Her father was absent-minded and heedless. He
was not a fit guardian for her. Was she not the prettiest girl in all
Dantzig--in all the world? Her sister was not fond enough of her to care
for her properly. He announced his intention of seeing her father the
next day. Everything should be done in order. Not a word must be hinted
by the most watchful neighbour against the perfect propriety of their
betrothal.

Desiree laughed and said that he was progressing rather rapidly. She had
only her instinct to guide her through these troubled waters; which was
much better than experience. Experience in a woman is tantamount to a
previous conviction against a prisoner.

Charles was grave, however; a rare tribute. He was in love for the
first time, which often makes men quite honest for a brief period--even
unselfish. Of course, some men are honest and unselfish all their lives;
which perhaps means that they remain in love--for the first time--all
their lives. They are rare, of course. But the sort of woman with whom
it is possible to remain in love all through a lifetime is rarer.

So Charles waylaid Antoine Sebastian the next day as he went out of the
Frauenthor for his walk in the morning sun by the side of the frozen
Mottlau. He was better received than he had any reason to expect.

"I am only a lieutenant," he said, "but in these days, monsieur, you
know--there are possibilities."

He laughed gaily as he waved his gloves in the direction of Russia,
across the river. But Sebastian's face clouded