'Oh no, don't!' said Bernard, frowning. 'I would rather you should n't.'
'Of course,' Mrs. Vivian added, 'I know it 's all on his account; but that makes me wish to thank you all the more. Let me express my gratitude, in advance, for the rest of the time, till he comes back. That 's more responsibility than you bargained for,' she said, with a little nervous laugh.
'Yes, it 's more than I bargained for. I am thinking of going away.'
Mrs. Vivian almost gave a little jump, and then she paused on the Baden cobble-stones, looking up at him.
'If you must go, Mr. Longueville—don't sacrifice yourself!'
The exclamation fell upon Bernard's ear with a certain softly mocking cadence which was sufficient, however, to make this organ tingle.
'Oh, after all, you know,' he said, as they walked on—'after all, you know, I am not like Wright—I have no business.'
He walked with the ladies to the door of their lodging. Angela kept always in front. She stood there, however, at the little confectioner's window until the others came up. She let her mother pass in, and then she said to Bernard, looking at him—
'Shall I see you again?'
'Some time, I hope.'
'I mean—are you going away?'
Bernard looked for a moment at a little pink sugar cherub—a species of Cupid, with a gilded bow—which figured among the pastry-cook's enticements. Then he said—
'I will come and tell you this evening.'
And in the evening he went to tell her; she had mentioned during the walk in the garden of the Schloss that they should not go out. As he approached Mrs. Vivian's door he saw a figure in a light dress standing in the little balcony. He stopped and looked up, and then the person in the light dress, leaning her hands on the railing, with her shoulders a little raised, bent over and looked down at him. It was very dark, but even through the thick dusk he thought he perceived the finest brilliancy of Angela Vivian's smile.
'I shall not go away,' he said, lifting his voice a little.
She made no answer; she only stood looking down at him through the warm dusk and smiling. He went into the house, and he remained at Baden-Baden till Gordon came back.
CHAPTER XIV
Gordon asked him no questions for twenty-four hours after his return, then suddenly he began:
'Well, have n't you something to say to me?'
It was at the hotel, in Gordon's apartment, late in the afternoon. A heavy thunder-storm had broken over the place an hour before, and Bernard had been standing at one of his friend's windows, rather idly, with his hands in his pockets, watching the rain-torrents dance upon the empty pavements. At last the deluge abated, the clouds began to break—there was a promise of a fine evening. Gordon Wright, while the storm was at its climax, sat down to write letters, and wrote half a dozen. It was after he had sealed, directed and affixed a postage-stamp to the last of the series that he addressed to his companion the question I have just quoted.
'Do you mean about Miss Vivian?' Bernard asked, without turning round from the window.
'About Miss Vivian, of course.' Bernard said nothing and his companion went on. 'Have you nothing to tell me about Miss Vivian?'
Bernard presently turned round looking at Gordon and smiling a little.
'She 's a delightful creature!'
'That won't do—you have tried that before,' said Gordon. 'No,' he added in a moment, 'that won't do.' Bernard turned back to the window, and Gordon continued, as he remained silent. 'I shall have a right to consider your saying nothing a proof of an unfavorable judgment. You don't like her!'
Bernard faced quickly about again, and for an instant the two men looked at each other.
'Ah, my dear Gordon,' Longueville murmured.
'Do you like her then?' asked Wright, getting up.
'No!' said Longueville.
'That 's just what I wanted to know, and I am much obliged to you for telling me.'
'I am not obliged to you for asking me. I was in hopes you would n't.'
'You dislike her very much then?' Gordon exclaimed, gravely.
'Won't disliking her, simply, do?' said Bernard.
'It will do very well. But it will do a little better if you will tell me why. Give me a reason or two.'
'Well,' said Bernard, 'I tried to make love to her and she boxed my ears.'
'The devil!' cried Gordon.
'I mean morally, you know.'
Gordon stared; he seemed a little puzzled.
'You tried to make love to her morally?'
'She boxed my ears morally,' said Bernard, laughing out.
