“So you refuse to confide in me, even when I offer you my aid?”
“I fear you cannot aid me, mademoiselle; and if any one in the world could, it would be you.”
“I am not fond of riddles, M. de Tavernay; and it seems to me that you have just propounded one.”
“I spoke very seriously,” I said, “and as plainly as I could.”
“Oh, you mean it is my wits which are deficient! I must say, monsieur——”
“I meant nothing of the sort,” I protested. “I meant——”
“No matter,” she broke in. “Nothing is so wearisome as to have to explain one’s meaning—unless it be to listen to the explanation. I am sure it argues dulness somewhere.”
“I am sorry that I bore you,” I retorted, stung to a sort of desperation. “I had hoped that I might at least continue to furnish you amusement.”
“Really,” she cried, casting me a brilliant glance, “not a bad riposte. Come, we are quits, then?”
“With all my heart,” I agreed; “especially since you have removed your button.”