is only your
mistress I can not forgive. On the contrary, there is much to thank you
for."

"Still, whatever I do or have done is merely in accordance with her
Highness's wishes."

He moved uneasily. "It is her will, not yours."

"Yes; the heart of Madame Amerbach is supine to the brain of Madame the
duchess." She rose and moved silently to the window and peered out. He
thought her to be star-gazing; but she was not. She was endeavoring to
see where Maurice and the countess were.

"Madame, shall I tell you a secret?"

"A secret? Tell me," sitting in the chair next to his.

"This has been the pleasantest week I have known in thirteen years."

"Then you forgive me!" Madame was not only mistress of music but of
tones.

"Yes."

And then, out of the fullness of his lonely heart, he told her all about
his life, its emptiness, its deserts, its longings. Each sentence was a
knife placed in her hands; and as she contemplated his honest face which
could conceal nothing, his earnest eyes which could hide nothing, Madame
was conscious of a vague distrust of herself. If only he had offered to
fight, she thought. But he had not; instead, he was giving to her all
his weapons of defense.

"Ah, Monsieur, you do wrong to forgive me!" impulsively.

He smiled.

"Why should you be friendly to me when I represent all that is
antagonistic to you?"

"To me you represent only a beautiful woman."

"Ah; you have been taking lessons of your friend."

"He is a good teacher. He is one of those men whom I admire. Women have
never mastered him. He knows so much about them."

"Yes?" a flicker in her eyes.

"Beneath all his banter there is a brave heart. He is a rare man who,
having brain and heart to guide, follows the heart." He picked up the
pipe and began to play a tattoo on the sill. "As for me, I know nothing
of women, save what I have read in books, and save that I have been too
long without them."

"And you have gone all these years without knowing what it is to love?"
To a man less guileless, this question would not have been in good
taste.

Fitzgerald was silent; he dared not venture another lie.

"What! you are silent? Is there, after all, a woman somewhere in your
life?"

"Yes." He continued to tap the pipe. His gaze wandered to the candles,
strayed back to the window, then met hers steadfastly, so steadfastly,
that she could not resist. She was annoyed.

"Tell me about her."

"My vocabulary is too limited.