“They never gave me your card.”
“I did not leave it.”
“Was it you, then, who called every day while I was ill, and would never leave your name?”
“Yes, it was I.”
“Then you are more than indulgent, you are generous. You, count, wouldn’t have done that,” said she, turning toward M. de N., after giving me one of those looks in which women sum up their opinion of a man.
“I have only known you for two months,” replied the count.
“And this gentleman only for five minutes. You always say something ridiculous.”
Women are pitiless toward those whom they do not care for. The count reddened and bit his lips.
I was sorry for him, for he seemed, like myself, to be in love, and the bitter frankness of Marguerite must have made him very unhappy, especially in the presence of two strangers.
“You were playing the piano when we came in,” I said, in order to change the conversation. “Won’t you be so good as to treat me as an old acquaintance and go on?”