“Madame, you drive me to the brink of despair.”
“I 'm sure of that,” said she, laughing. “I have driven several that far; but, strange to say, I never knew one who went over.”
“Do not push torture to insufferance, madame,” cried he, theatrically; but, instead of laughing at him, she looked really alarmed at his words.
“Oh, Monsieur Pracontal,” cried she, suddenly, “was that little song you sung last night your own? I mean words and music both?”
He bowed with an air of modesty.
“What a nice talent, to be able to compose and write verses too! But they tell me you are horribly satirical; that you make rhymes on people impromptu, and sing them in the very room with them.”
“Only, madame, when they are, what you call in English, bores.”
“But I like bores, they are so nice and dull. Do you know, Monsieur Pracontal, if it were not for bores, we English would have no distinctive nationality? Our bores are essentially our own, and unlike all the other species of the creature elsewhere.”
“I respect them, and I bow to their superiority.”
“It was very kind, very nice of you, to give up your ride over the Campagna, and come here to sit with me in one of my dull moods, for to-day I am very dull and dispirited. I have an odious headache, and my sister has been scolding me, and I have had such unpleasant letters. Altogether, it is a dark day with me.”