worse. Only a moment ago he had taken her hand in a way which might well
mislead an innocent girl. The Count, according to his lights, was the very
incarnation of the theory, honour, in the practice, honesty. His path was
clear. If he had deceived Vjera in the very smallest accent of word or
detail of deed he must make instant reparation. This was the reason why he
turned sharply in his seat and looked at her with a look which was
certainly kind, but which was, perhaps, more full of determination than of
lover-like tenderness.

"Vjera," he said, slowly, pausing on every syllable of his speech, "will
you be my wife?"

Vjera looked at him long and shook her head in silence. Instead of
blushing, she turned pale, changing colour with that suddenness which
belongs to delicate or exhausted organisations. The Count did not heed the
plain though unspoken negation and continued to speak very slowly and
earnestly, choosing his words and rounding his expressions as though he
were making a declaration to a young princess instead of asking a poor
Polish girl to marry him. He even drew himself together, as it were, with
the movement of dignity which was habitual with him, straightening his
back, squaring his shoulders and leaning slightly forward in his seat. As
he began to speak again, Vjera clasped her hands upon her knees and looked
down at the gravel of the public path.

"I am in earnest," he said. "To-morrow, all those rights to which I was
born will be restored to me, and I shall enjoy what the world calls a
great position. Am I so deeply indebted to the world that I must submit to
all its prejudices and traditions? Has the world given me anything, in
exchange for which it becomes my duty to consult its caprices, or its
social superstitions? Surely not. To whom am I most indebted, to the world