little finger."

She laughed at him softly.

"Ah, no!" she said. "Men are not like that, nowadays. They talk
and they talk, but it is not much they would do for a woman's sake."

"You believe that?" he asked, in a low tone.

"I do, indeed. One reads love-stories - no, I do not mean romances,
but memoirs - memoirs of the French and Austrian Courts - memoirs,
even, written by Englishmen. Men were different a generation ago.
Honor was dear to them then, honor and position and wealth, and yet
there were many, very many then who were willing to give all these
things for the love of a woman.

"And do you think there are none now?" he whispered hoarsely.

"My friend," she answered, looking down at him, "I think that there
are very few."

She heard his breath come fast between his teeth, and she realized
his state of excitement.

"Mademoiselle Louise," he said, "my love for you has made me a
laughing-stock in the clubs of Vienna. I - the poverty-stricken,
who have nothing but a noble name, nothing to offer you - have dared
to show others what I think, have dared to place you in my heart
above all the women on earth."