“They have, and are no better for the process; but I read them.”
“Without pleasure?”
“Monsieur must not be contradicted.”
“Do you like them, or any of them?—are they acceptable?” “Monsieur has seen me reading them a hundred times, and knows I have not so many recreations as to undervalue those he provides.”
“I mean well; and, if you see that I mean well, and derive some little amusement from my efforts, why can we not be friends?”
“A fatalist would say—because we cannot.”
“This morning,” he continued, “I awoke in a bright mood, and came into classe happy; you spoiled my day.”
“No, Monsieur, only an hour or two of it, and that unintentionally.”
“Unintentionally! No. It was my fête-day; everybody wished me happiness but you. The little children of the third division gave each her knot of violets, lisped each her congratulation:—you—nothing. Not a bud, leaf, whisper—not a glance. Was this unintentional?”
“I meant no harm.”