“That is finely felt—I am grateful. But I had better go, all the same. I have made up my mind to go, for good and all. You can get on exceedingly well without me: your operetta is on wheels—it will go of itself. And your Mr. Bull’s company fits me ‘wie die Faust ins Auge.’ I am neglecting my engagements. I must go off to St. Petersburg.” There was no answer. “You agree with me that I had better go?” said Klesmer, with some irritation. “Certainly; if that is what your business and feeling prompt. I have only to wonder that you have consented to give us so much of your time in the last year. There must be treble the interest to you anywhere else. I have never thought of you consenting to come here as anything else than a sacrifice.” “Why should I make the sacrifice?” said Klesmer, going to seat himself at the piano, and touching the keys so as to give with the delicacy of an echo in the far distance a melody which he had set to Heine’s “Ich hab’ dich geliebet und liebe dich noch.” “That is the mystery,” said Catherine, not wanting to affect anything, but from mere agitation. From the same cause she was tearing a piece of paper into minute morsels, as if at a task of utmost multiplication imposed by a cruel fairy. “You can conceive no motive?” said Klesmer, folding his arms. “None that seems in the least probable.” “Then I shall tell you. It is because you are to me the chief woman in the world—the throned lady whose colors I carry between my heart and my armor.” Catherine’s hands trembled so much that she could no longer tear the paper: still less could her lips utter a word. Klesmer went on, “This would be the last impertinence in me, if I meant to found anything upon it. That is out of the question. I meant no such thing. But you once said it was your doom to suspect every man who courted you of being an adventurer, and what made you angriest was men’s imputing to you the folly of believing that they courted you for your own sake. Did you not say so?” “Very likely,” was the answer, in a low murmur. “It was a bitter word. Well, at least one man who has seen women as plenty as flowers in May has lingered about you for your own sake. And since he is one whom you can never marry, you will believe him. There is an argument in favor of some other man. But don’t give yourself for a meal to a minotaur like Bult. I shall go now and pack. I shall make my excuses to Mrs. Arrowpoint.” Klesmer rose as he ended, and walked quickly toward the door. “You must take this heap of manuscript,” then said Catherine, suddenly making a desperate effort. She had risen to fetch the heap from another table. Klesmer came back, and they had the length of the folio sheets between them. “Why should I not marry the man who loves me, if I love him?” said Catherine. To her the effort was something like the leap of a woman from the deck into the lifeboat.