Beneath the thrall of her presence it did not occur to him then that the saving of the history, or ten histories, should have meant nothing compared with one human life, but at that moment he was conscious only that she was speaking to him, and that slowly, inexorably, he was beginning to fall in love with her. This meeting only served to emphasize the attraction for her which, almost against his will, had pulled him to the _château_, away from Budapest. He wished he could see her, watch her ever-changing expressions, behold her again as he had beheld her outside the _château_, and begrudged the cloak of darkness which blacked out her marvellous eyes from his vision, the eyes which, close to, he had seen covered by alabaster eyelids. "Mademoiselle, there is a chair just here. Will you not come closer so that I can put you into it?" Even to himself it was obvious that his voice was deeper, more alive, and throbbing with an emotion he could not control. Elizabeth was conscious of the change, for she hesitated. "I do not mind standing, monsieur." "Come! I should feel more easy if you would sit." He heard her move slightly, then his outstretched hand came into contact with her arm. Gently he slid his hand down to her wrist, and guided her to the seat. He felt her quivering gently within his grasp, and, aware of her lack of fear, his heart leaped when it seemed to him that there could be but one reason for her nervousness. Reluctantly he withdrew his hand, and in doing so experienced a sensation of chilling self-abnegation, and forcibly realized that roseate-hued dreams were blinding his sense of reality. The voice of conscience interpolated its everlasting chant: to feel thus was disloyalty to Zita; while revealed in a colder light the suggestion that Elizabeth could reciprocate his sudden feelings in so short a time became impossible. His heart cried out in protest, so that when he next spoke there was an unshed tear in his voice. "Won't you tell me of yourself, mademoiselle? Elizabeth Kiss! It is a pretty name." "It is an old Hungarian name." "It is prettier still in my language. You know it?" he questioned. She answered him in English. "A little. I learned it many years ago when I was still at school." The music of her voice seemed to echo and re-echo in the quietness of the room. Never had his own language sounded so exquisite. Behind each carefully pronounced word whispered a faint suggestion of an accent, liquid and sibilant, like the ripple of a pure mountain rivulet. Each passing moment revealed to him a new charm in her, and every new discovery wrapped him deeper in the meshes of a growing adoration. "You speak it splendidly, mademoiselle. You must continue to talk to me in English. You were telling me of yourself."