It was far too fine a morning, indeed, to spend in a museum, even with all Madame Potecki’s treasures spread out before one.  So, instead of going to South Kensington, he went straight up to Curzon Street.  Early as he was, he was not too early, for he was leisurely walking along the pavement when, ahead of him, he saw Natalie and her little maid come forth and set out westward.  He allowed them to reach the park gates; then he overtook them.  Anneli fell a little way behind.

Now, whether it was the brightness of the morning had raised her spirits, or that she had been reasoning herself into a more courageous frame of mind, it was soon very clear that Natalie was not at all so anxious and embarrassed as she had shown herself the day before when they parted.

“There was no letter from you this morning,” she said, with a smile, though she did not look up into his face.  “Then I have offered myself to you, and am refused?”

“How could I write?” he said.  “I tried once or twice, and then I saw I must wait until I could tell you face to face all that I think of your bravery and your goodness.  And now that I see you Natalie, it is not a bit better:  I can’t tell you; I am so happy to be near you, to be beside you, and hear your voice, that I don’t think I can say anything at all.”

“I am refused, then?” said she, shyly.

“Refused!” he exclaimed.  “There are some things one cannot refuse—­like the sunshine.  But do you know what a terrible sacrifice you are making?”

“It is you, then, who are making no sacrifice at all,” she said, reproachfully.  “What do I sacrifice more than every girl must sacrifice when she marries?  England is not my home as it is your home; we have lived everywhere; I have no childhood’s friends to leave, as many a girl has.”

“Your father—­”

“After a little while my father will scarcely miss me; he is too busy.”

But presently she added,

“If you had remained in England I should never have been your wife.”

“Why?” he said with some surprise.

“I should never have married against my father’s wishes,” she said, thoughtfully.  “No.  My promise to you was that I would be your wife, or the wife of no one.  I would have kept that promise.  But as long as we could have seen each other, and been with each other from time to time, I don’t think I could have married against my father’s wish.  Now it is quite different.  Your going to America has changed it all.  Ah, my dear friend, you don’t know what I suffered one or two nights before I could decide what was right for me to do!”

“I can guess,” he said, in a low voice, in answer to that brief sigh of hers.

Then she grew more cheerful in manner.