But-who knows? Meanwhile--"
"Meanwhile, you don't mean to send me away from you?" he pleaded, in a
coaxing way he has, which is part of his charm, and makes him seem like
a boy. "You don't know what it is, after that scene of your death on the
stage, where I couldn't get to you--where another man was your lover--to
touch you again, alive and warm, your own adorable, vivid self. You
_will_ let me go home with you, in your carriage, anyhow as far as the
house, and kiss you good-night there, even if you're so tired you must
drive me out then?"
I would have given all my success of that night, and more, to say "yes."
But instead I had to stumble into excuses. I had to argue that we
mustn't be seen leaving the theatre together--yet, until everyone knew
that we were engaged. As for letting him come to me at home, if he
dreamt how my head ached, he wouldn't ask it. I almost broke down as I
said this; and poor Raoul was so sorry for me that he immediately
offered to leave me at once.
"It's a great sacrifice, though, to give up what I've been looking
forward to for days," he said, "and to let you go from me to-night of
all nights."
"Why to-night of all nights?", I asked quickly, my coward conscience
frightening me again.
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