“You never looked at me at all,” said Stella before she was aware of it, and then blushed crimson at the inference of her speech.  He would be able to understand perfectly that she must have been observing him all the time to be conscious of this.

A gleam of gladness came into his eyes.

“I would like to watch you always openly, if I might,” he whispered.  “Your little face is like a flower in its delicate tints, and your eyes are true and tender and asking so many questions of life,—­and sometimes they are veiled and misty, and then they look wise and courageous.  I am beginning to know all their changes.”

“Then, in that case, monotony will set in,” Stella was almost arch—­the day was so glorious!

“I am not afraid of that,” he said.  “I always know what I want and what is worth while.  I do not value my three matchless pearls the less because I know their every iridescence—­on the contrary, I grow more fond of them and wear them every night in preference to any others.”

They were silent for a moment after this.  He was examining her minutely with his wise, calm eyes.  He was noting the sensitive curve of the pretty full lips, the tender droop of the set of her head, the gracious charm of her little regular features, and the intelligence of her broad brow.  With all her simplicity, she looked no fool or weakling.  And to think that the narrow code of those who surrounded her should force this sweet young creature into the gray walls of a prison house, when she became the English clergyman’s wife; it was too revolting to him.  Count Roumovski suddenly made up his mind, trained to instantaneous decision by his bent of studies, and sure and decided in its action.  And if Stella had looked up then she would have seen a keen gleam in the peaceful blue of his eyes.  He drew her on to talk of her home and her tastes—­she loved many things he did, he found—­and she was so eager to hear and to learn their meaning.  He grew to feel a sort of pride and the pleasure of a teacher when directing an extremely intelligent child.  There were no barriers of stupidity into whatever regions the subjects might wander.  They spent an hour of pure joy investigating each other’s thoughts.  And both knew they were growing more than friends.

Then Stella rose suddenly to her feet.  A clock struck twelve.

“You said one must not be negative and drift,” she announced demurely, “so I am being decided and must now go to Martha again.”

“Ivan has not warned us that she is thinking of stirring,” Count Roumovski said.  “I told him to, and he will let us know in plenty of time; you surely do not breakfast until half-past twelve, do you?”

“Ivan?—­who is Ivan?” Stella asked.

“He is a servant of mine who does what he is bid,” her companion answered.  “To have peace to enjoy oneself one must calculate and arrange for events.  Had we only trusted to the probability of your maid’s sleeping, I should have had to be on the lookout, and my uneasiness would have communicated itself to you, and we should have had no happy hour—­but I made a certainty of safety—­and unconsciously you trusted me to know, and so we have been content.”