They lay motionless, her head touching his shoulder timidly.
"I could live with you forever and be happy," she whispered.
"We will see about forever—when it comes."
"Do you like me—perhaps—now?"
He would have preferred her silent. Silence at least was an effortless lie. To make love was preposterous. How many times had he said, "I love you?" Too many. But she was young and it would sound pretty in her ears.
"Mathilde, dear one."
Her arm trembled across his body.
It was difficult, but he would say it.... "Yes, in an odd sort of way, Mathilde, I love you...."
"Ah! you are only being polite—because I have fed you broth."
"No. As much as I can love anything...."