She stole a glance at me.
“As for the face,” she continued, “you will remember that I bathed it last night, monsieur, while I was attempting to revive you, and so it is nearly as attractive as nature made it.”
“A poor consolation,” I retorted.
“Well,” she said, looking at it critically, “I confess I have seen handsomer ones.”
“Yes?” I encouraged, as she hesitated.
“But never one I liked better,” she added, a heavenly shyness in her eyes.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, suddenly taking my courage in my hands, “last night while I was unconscious I dreamed such a beautiful dream. I wonder if it was true?”
She glanced again at me hastily and her cheeks were very red.
“Dreams are never true,” she said decidedly. “They go by contraries. You will have to bedaub your face a little before you venture forth again.”
“But the dream,” I insisted, refusing to be diverted. “Shall I tell you what it was?”