“Cora,” he said, “it is the prelude to `L’Arlesienne’ that they should play for you and me. Yes, I think it should be that.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s just a rustic tragedy, the story of a boy in the south of France who lets love become his whole life, and then—it kills him.”
“Sounds very stupid,” she commented languidly.
“People do sometimes die of love, even nowadays,” he said, tremulously—“in the South.”
She let her eyes drift indifferently to him and perceived that he was trembling from head to foot; that his hands and knees shook piteously; that his lips quivered and twitched; and, at sight of this agitation, an expression of strong distaste came to her face.
“I see.” Her eyes returned to the lamp. “You’re from the South, and of course it’s going to kill you.”
“You didn’t speak the exact words you had in your mind.’”
“Oh, what words did I have `in my mind’?” she asked impatiently.
“What you really meant was: `If it does kill you, what of it?’”