The thought leaped.  “And this sublime folly—­this madness—­was for me?”

It stirred and intoxicated him.  Yet she was not thereby raised in his eyes.  Nay, the contrary.  With the passion which was rapidly mounting in his veins there mingled—­poor Julie!—­a curious diminution of respect.

“Julie!” He held out his hand to her peremptorily.  “Come to me again.  You are so wonderful to-night, in that white dress—­like a wild muse.  I shall always see you so.  Come!”

She obeyed, and gave him her hands, standing beside his chair.  But her face was still absorbed.

“To be free,” she said, under her breath—­“free, like my parents, from all these petty struggles and conventions!”

Then she felt his kisses on her hands, and her expression changed.

“How we cheat ourselves with words!” she whispered, trembling, and, withdrawing one hand, she smoothed back the light-brown curls from his brow with that protecting tenderness which had always entered into her love for him.  “To-night we are here—­together—­this one last night!  And to-morrow, at this time, you’ll be in Paris; perhaps you’ll be looking out at the lights—­and the crowds on the Boulevard—­and the chestnut-trees.  They’ll just be in their first leaf—­I know so well!—­and the little thin leaves will be shining so green under the lamps—­and I shall be here—­and it will be all over and done with—­forever.  What will it matter whether I am free or not free?  I shall be alone!  That’s all a woman knows.”

Her voice died away.  Warkworth rose.  He put his arms round her, and she did not resist.

“Julie,” he said in her ear, “why should you be alone?”

A silence fell between them.

“I—­I don’t understand,” she said, at last.

“Julie, listen!  I shall be three days in Paris, but my business can be perfectly done in one.  What if you met me there after to-morrow?  What harm would it be?  We are not babes, we two.  We understand life.  And who would have any right to blame or to meddle?  Julie, I know a little inn in the valley of the Bievre, quite near Paris, but all wood and field.  No English tourists ever go there.  Sometimes an artist or two—­but this is not the time of year.  Julie, why shouldn’t we spend our last two days there—­together—­away from all the world, before we say good-bye?  You’ve been afraid here of prying people—­of the Duchess even—­of Madame Bornier—­how she scowls at me sometimes!  Why shouldn’t we sweep all that away—­and be happy!  Nobody should ever—­nobody could ever know.”  His voice dropped, became still more hurried and soft.  “We might go as brother and sister—­that would be quite simple.  You are practically French.  I speak French well.  Who is to have an idea, a suspicion of our identity?  The spring there is mild and warm.  The Bois de Verrieres close by is full of flowers.  When my father was alive, and I was a child, we went once, to economize, for a year, to a village a mile or two away.  But I knew this place quite well.  A lovely, green, quiet spot!  With your poetical ideas, Julie, you would delight in it.  Two days—­wandering in the woods—­together!  Then I put you into the train for Brussels, and I go my way.  But to all eternity, Julie, those days will have been ours!”