"Yes, after a little."

"I wish you had gone when you started."

"Why?"

"I am sure that you, who always understand, know why."

"After a while will do," he said easily, "when we are more tired of ourselves." He paused. "Perhaps Thursday," he suggested.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, in spite of herself.

"Why 'oh'?"

"You are so positive that we shall be _ennuyes_ by Thursday."

"Yes," he replied tranquilly, "we see so much of us together that it cannot last long so. Indeed it was for that that I was quite willing to go to-day, but on the train I begin to think otherwise, and my otherwise thoughts are become so strong that I find myself obliged to get down at Aarburg."

"And Leipsic?"

"Ah, for that you were so charming to send for me to-night and tell me how all has been I will tell you all the truth of Leipsic. It is there that my professor lives, the man who has teach me all that I know. He is to me the most dear out of all the world, for he gave to me my music, which is my life and my soul. And so you may understand that I speak truth indeed when I say that I have much interest in Leipsic."

Rosina nodded, a sympathetic smile upon her lips.

"But we must go back to the hotel now," she said sadly; "it is nearly ten o'clock."

"And I may come to-morrow morning and we shall make a promenade together, _n'est-ce pas_?" he said eagerly; "it is so good, you and I together, these days. How can I make you know how I feel if you have not the same feeling,--the feeling that all the clouds and all the gra.s.s are singing, that all about us is perfect accord of sound, when we are only free to laugh and to talk as we may please."

"But I ought to go on to my friends to-morrow," she said, "you must know that."

"But I will go there."

"To Constance?"

"Yes, surely."

"Oh, monsieur, that will not do at all!"

"Why will it not do at all?"

"I don't want you following me to Constance as you did to Zurich."

"But I will not follow you; I will this time go on the same train with you."

"Oh," she said, in despair at the wide s.p.a.ce between his views and those of the world in general, "you cannot do that, it would not look well at all."

He stared at her in surprise.

"Who will it look unwell to?"

"Don't say 'unwell,' say 'not well.'"

"Not well; who will see it not well?"

"Ah," she said, shaking her head, "there is no telling who would see only too well, and that is just the trouble."

Von Ibn knit his black brows.

"I do not understand that just," he said, after a moment. And then he reflected further and added, "You are of an oddness so peculiar. Why must the world matter? I am my world--nothing matters to me. _Vous etes tortillante!_ you are afraid of stupid people and the tongues they have in them. That is your drollness. And anyway, I may go to Constance if I will. I may go anywhere if I will. You cannot prevent."

She looked off across the lake.

"You ought to want to do what pleases me," she suggested.

"But I do not," he said vigorously; "I want to do what pleases me, and you must want it too,--it will be much better for America when all the women do that. I observe much, and I observe especially in particular that. An American woman is like a queen--she does her own wish always, and is always unhappy; in Europe she does her husband's wish, and it is much better for her and very good for him, and they are very happy, and I am coming to Constance."

"But I have no husband," said Rosina insistently.

"It will be very good if you learn to obey, and then you can have one again."

"But I never mean to marry again."

"I never mean to marry once, _surtout pas une Americaine_."

She felt hurt at this speech and made no reply.

"But I mean to come to Constance."

"Monsieur, you say that we see too much of one another; then why do you want to drive our acquaintance to the last limits of boredom?"

"But you do not bore me," he said; and then after a long pause he added, "yet."

She was forced to feel that the "y" in "yet" had probably begun with a capital.

"I want to go to the hotel now," she said, in a tired tone.

"Let us go and get an ice or some coffee first; yes?"

"Don't keep saying 'yes' that way," she cried impatiently; "you know how it frets me."

He took her arm gently.

"You are indeed fatigued," he said in a low tone, "I have troubled you much to-night. But I have trouble myself too. Did you see how unhappy I was, and was it so that you sent for me? _Dites-moi franchement_."

"Yes," she answered, with simplicity.

"And why did you care?"

"I didn't want you to think what I knew that you were thinking."