"Not Max," she said; her eyes told me why it should not be Max.
"Then Wetter," and I fell on one knee by her, whispering, "The King gives it to his Queen."
"They'll blame you so; they'll say all sorts of things."
"I shan't hear them; I hear only you."
"They'll be unkind to you."
"They can't hurt me if you're kind to me."
"Perhaps they'll say I—I got it from you."
"I am not ashamed. What is it to me what they say?"
"You don't care?"
"For nothing in the world but you and to be with you."
She sat looking up at me for an instant; then she threw her arm over the end of the sofa and laid her face on the cushion; I heard her sob softly. Her other hand lay in her lap; I took it and raised it to my lips. I did not know the meaning of her tears. I was triumphant. She sobbed, not loudly or violently, but with a pitiful gentleness.
"Why do you cry so, darling?" I whispered.
She turned her face to me; the tears were running down her cheeks. "Why do I cry?" she moaned softly. "Because I'm wicked—I suppose I'm wicked—and so foolish. And—and you are good, and noble, and—and you'll be great. And"—the sobs choked her voice, and she turned her face half away—"and I'm old, Augustin."
I could not enter into her mood; joy pervaded me; but neither did I scorn her nor grow impatient. I perceived dimly that she struggled with a conflict of emotions beyond my understanding. Words were unsafe, likely to be wrong, to make worse what they
