for it—words eloquent of its force and dignity. But before her simple impulsive question I was dumb. A wave of shyness swept over me not even to her could I divulge my thoughts, not even from her risk the smile of ridicule or the blankness of non-apprehension. I became wretchedly certain that I should be only absurd and priggish, that she would not believe 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
