“What shall I talk about?”
“Anything you like, only not politics, or religion, or literature, or fine arts—people are so unnatural when they discuss these; nor—not society and gossip, for then they grow spiteful and ill-natured; nor about myself, for then you 'd fancy you were in love with me, and I 'd have to shut the door against you. Oh, how my head aches! Give me that flacon, pray; thanks, now go back to your place.”
“Shall I read to you?”
“No: there's nothing I detest so much as being read to. One never follows the book; it is the tone and accent of the reader, something in his voice, something one fancies an affectation attracts attention, and you remark how his hair is parted, or how his boots are made. Oh, why will you torment me this way—I don't want to talk and you persist in asking me questions.”
“If you had not a headache I'd sing for you.”
“No, I 'll not let you sing to me alone; that would be quite wrong. Remember, monsieur, and when I say remember, I mean never forget, I am excessively prude; not of that school of prudery that repels, but of that higher tone which declares a freedom impossible. Do you comprehend?”
“Perfectly, madame,” said he, bowing with an air of an ideal reverence.
“Now, then, that we have settled the preliminaries of our—oh, dear!” burst she out, “see what it is to be speaking French! I had almost said of 'our friendship.'”
“And why not, madame? Can you possibly entertain a doubt of that sentiment, at once devoted and respectful, which has brought me to your feet?”
“I never do doubt about anything that I want to believe; at least till I change my mind on it, for I am—yes, I am very capricious. I am charmed with you to-day; but do not be surprised if my servant shuts the door against you to-morrow.”