“There are several; I know them well,” she said.

“Good; and you will take me to them?”

“It will be jolly.”

“I am very lucky to have you in Dornlitz,” I said gratefully.

She smiled sweetly.  “Maybe I’m lucky, too,” she said.

It brought me up with a jerk.  It was folly to be serious with her—­she was only bantering as usual.

“It’s none of my affair, of course,” I said with assumed sadness, “but I would like to know how many poor devils have gone down before that smile in the last six years.”

“You mean?”

“That you’re the most consummate coquette I know.”

“Is that a compliment?” she asked.

“That depends.”

“Upon what?”

“Upon the way you use your power.”

She hesitated a moment.  “Have I ever used it improperly to your knowledge?” she asked.

I dodged the question.  “You admit the power, then?”

“I admit nothing, except that I do not like to be called a coquette.”

I saw she was in earnest here; there was almost a choke in her voice.

“But I would not have you otherwise,” I objected.

She shook her bead.  “You say that only because you think you hurt me.”

“Don’t you know your bright and happy disposition is a thing beyond price?” I argued.

“I know its price is heavy—­I have paid it to you just now—­I am paying it every day of my life.”  There were tears in the voice.

I was at a loss what to say.  A man is an awkward comforter at best, and when he is guilty of bringing on the trouble, he is sure only to make a worse mess of it.  So I held my tongue and we rode a while in silence.

She spoke first.  “I know you are quite justified in your notion of me,” she said.  “I have given you every reason to call me coquette, flirt, or anything of that sort.”

I raised my hand in protest.

“No, let me finish,” she went on.  “I have only myself to blame for it.  I was warned against you before I ever saw you; and, so, I tried to play your own game from the start.” (I hope I had the grace to blush; I think I had.) “But the other night, somehow, the game got too fast for me—­and I—­well, I bungled.  But whether you believe me or not, Major Dalberg, I want to say, as a solace to myself, at least, that you are the only man who ever kissed my face.”

I have smelled considerable powder in active service, and I think I may say I have a fair amount of courage, but it had all oozed away before the grieving tones and melting eyes of beauty in distress; and in another moment I should have cut and run like the rankest coward.  For, what would you?  A handsome woman (none I had ever seen, not even the Princess, surpassed her) almost in tears beside you—­and all because of your own clumsy tongue and heavy sense.

I opened my mouth to speak; but the words did not come.  In truth, my brain would not act.  I was vacant of ideas.  And so she waited; while our horses walked with heads together, friendly as old stable chums.  Then I found my tongue.