"Do you think so?"
"Yes; and I am getting old, am I not?"
She made an effort, and looked him straight in the face.
"No; nothing but a few grey hairs in your beard, and rather a weary look."
The trembling of her voice contrasted with the apparent indifference which she chose to give to her tone.
The count instantly grew serious. He put his hand to his brow, and at the end of some moments, he replied in a gloomy tone, as if he were speaking to himself:
"Weary! yes, that is the right word. Very weary! Weariness is exhaled from every pore."
Then they were both silent. The count was plunged in profound meditation which brought a deep furrow to his brow. After a while he renewed the conversation by saying:
"I saw you before I came here."
"Where?" she asked with assumed surprise.