Part 19 (2/2)
”I hoped I should have gone.”
”And I,” said Max, ”am glad that you have not. Selfish of me, isn't it?” Then he kissed her hand again.
She began a homely mopping of her face.
”Then it doesn't matter how I look now?” she commented, and paused. ”How am I looking?”
”Well, and as dear as ever,” he replied.
”That isn't what I wanted to know. You know it isn't.”
”You are looking,” he said, ”just two evening moons older than when I saw you last.”
”What have evening moons got to do with it?”
”They are your most becoming time.”
She took the compliment with a sigh and a smile; then with an air of resignation sat down.
”Who is she?” she asked abruptly.
”I haven't a ghost of a notion. We haven't been properly introduced, she hasn't encouraged me, I haven't said a word, and I'm not to go near her any more.”
This for a start. The Countess Hilda became deeply interested, and very much alarmed. ”Then it isn't a princess?” she cried in consternation, ”she isn't royalty?”
”Oh, no,” said Max, ”far from it. She is what you call a sister of mercy, and 'sister'--horrible word--is the only thing I am allowed to call her; she is a sealed casket without a handle.”
”Oh, Max,” cried his Countess, ”don't do it, don't do it; it's wickedness! _I_ didn't matter; but this--oh, Max, you don't know what a grief and disappointment you'll be to me if you----”
”Dearly beloved friend,” interrupted Max, ”do give me credit for a morality not very greatly inferior to your own. After all I am your pupil.”
”But you can't _marry_ her?” cried the Countess.
”Saving your presence, I mean to,” a.s.severated Max.
”You! Where will the Crown go?”
”Charlotte will have three inches taken out of its rim and will fit it far better than I should--that is if anybody is so foolish as to object to my marrying where I please.”
”Then in Heaven's name,” cried the Countess, ”why in all these years haven't you married me?”
Max smiled; they were back into easy relations once more. This was the lady with whom he had never spent a dull day.
”I did not wish to give you the pain of refusing me,” said he. ”Had I asked you you would have said that I was far too young to know my mind, and that you yourself were too old.”
”Yes, I should,” she admitted, ”but you should have left me to say it.”
Then she returned to her original bewilderment. ”But, my dear boy, if she is a sister of mercy she has taken vows.”
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