The Count, according to his lights, was the very incarnation of the theory, honour, in the practice, honesty.

His path was clear.

If he had deceived Vjera in the very smallest accent of word or detail of deed he must make instant reparation.

This was the reason why he turned sharply in his seat and looked at her with a look which was certainly kind, but which was, perhaps, more full of determination than of lover-like tenderness.
"Vjera," he said, slowly, pausing on every syllable of his speech, "will you be my wife ?" Vjera looked at him long and shook her head in silence.

Instead of blushing, she turned pale, changing colour with that suddenness which belongs to delicate or exhausted organisations.