A day or two after this he left off his bandages and tried to walk. He
made his way into the garden and hobbled successfully along one of the
alleys, but in the midst of his progress was pulled up by a spasm of
pain which forced him to stop and call for help. In an instant Euphemia
came tripping along the path and offered him her arm with the frankest
solicitude.

"Not to the house," he said, taking it; "further on, to the bosquet."
This choice was prompted by her having immediately confessed that she
had seen him leave the house, had feared an accident and had followed
him on tiptoe.

"Why didn't you join me?" he had asked, giving her a look in which
admiration was no longer disguised and yet felt itself half at the mercy
of her replying that a jeune fille shouldn't be seen following a
gentleman. But it drew a breath which filled its lungs for a long time
afterwards when she replied simply that if she had overtaken him he
might have accepted her arm out of politeness, whereas she wished to
have the pleasure of seeing him walk alone.

The bosquet was covered with an odorous tangle of blossoming creepers,
and a nightingale overhead was shaking out love-notes with a profusion
that made the Count feel his own conduct the last word of propriety.
"I've always heard that in America, when a man wishes to marry a young
girl, he offers himself simply face to face and without ceremony--
without parents and uncles and aunts and cousins sitting round in a
circle."

"Why I believe so," said Euphemia, staring and too surprised to be
alarmed.