I told her of the solitary life I was leading. Her aunt, she said, had seen more of my father than she, as they had sometimes played cards together after dinner. She urged me to visit them, assuring me a welcome.
When about half way home she complained of fatigue and sat down to rest on a bench that the heavy foliage had protected from the rain. I stood before her and watched the pale light of the moon playing on her face. After a moment’s silence she arose and, in a constrained manner, observed:
“Of what are you thinking? It is time for us to think of returning.”
“I was wondering,” I replied, “why God created you, and I was saying to myself that it was for the sake of those who suffer.”
“That is an expression that, coming from you, I can not look upon except as a compliment.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because you appear to be very young.”
“It sometimes happens,” I said, “that one is older than the face would seem to indicate.”
“Yes,” she replied, smiling, “and it sometimes happens that one is younger than his words would seem to indicate.”
“Have you no faith in experience?”