“You are not warmly clothed,” he said.  “I have an extra coat.  Put it on; don’t make a fuss but do so at once.  I know the climate and you don’t.”

She obeyed, and said she was all the cosier for it.  As they were nearing Petershof, he said half-nervously: 

“So my friends took you for my betrothed.  I hope you are not offended.”

“Why should I be?” she said frankly.  “I was only amused, because there never were two people less lover-like than you and I are.”

“No, that’s quite true,” he replied, in a tone of voice which betokened relief.

“So that I really don’t see that we need concern ourselves further in the matter,” she added wishing to put him quite at his ease.  “I’m not offended, and you are not offended, and there’s an end of it.”

“You seem to me to be a very sensible young woman in some respects,” the Disagreeable Man remarked after a pause.  He was now quite cheerful again, and felt he could really praise his companion.  “Although you have read so much, you seem to me sometimes to take a sensible view of things.  Now, I don’t want to be betrothed to you, any more than I suppose you want to be betrothed to me.  And yet we can talk quietly about the matter without a scene.  That would be impossible with most women.”

Bernardine laughed.  “Well, I only know,” she said cheerily, “that I have enjoyed my day very much, and I’m much obliged to you for your companionship.  The fresh air, and the change of surroundings, will have done me good.”

His reply was characteristic of him.

“It is the least disagreeable day I have spent for many months,” he said quietly.

“Let me settle with you for the sledge now,” she said, drawing out her purse, just as they came in sight of the Kurhaus.

They settled money matters, and were quits.

Then he helped her out of the sledge, and he stooped to pick up the shawl she dropped.

“Here is the shawl you are always dropping,” he said.  “You’re rather cold, aren’t you?  Here, come to the restaurant and have some brandy.  Don’t make a fuss.  I know what’s the right thing for you!”

She followed him to the restaurant, touched by his rough kindness.  He himself took nothing, but he paid for her brandy.

That evening after table-d’hote, or rather after he had finished his dinner, he rose to go to his room as usual.  He generally went off without a remark.  But to-night he said: 

“Good-night, and thank you for your companionship.  It has been my birthday to-day, and I’ve quite enjoyed it.”

CHAPTER XI.

“IF ONE HAS MADE THE ONE GREAT SACRIFICE.”

THERE was a suicide in the Kurhaus one afternoon.  A Dutchman, Vandervelt, had received rather a bad account of himself from the doctor a few days previously, and in a fit of depression, so it was thought, he had put a bullet through his head.  It had occurred through Marie’s unconscious agency.  She found him lying on his sofa when she went as usual to take him his afternoon glass of milk.  He asked her to give him a packet which was on the top shelf of his cupboard.