“Yes,” she said, simply.
And then he knew that his great news had turned to aloes in his mouth. The thing he had longed to tell her—a little boastfully—he could not bear to tell her now, and he wondered vaguely why it should be so. But he must tell her. He started to do so, and stopped. No—it would do as well after dinner.
“And you?” she said, after a little pause.
“Very much.... Very much....”
“No, no.... I am afraid. It cannot be so. You only say—that is all. You have make me love you—and soon you will go away and leave me to cry.... Yes....”
“And if I do,” he said, striving to tease her, “you will soon find another American. Sure you will.... Vous êtes très-méchante.... Pas fidèle.”
“How can you say? It is not kind. Oh, I am fidèle. You believe? Yes, yes. You believe?”
“Of course, child,” he said, repentantly. “I was only joking.”
“And you—are you fidèle? On the nights when I do not meet with you—what then? Do you see some other girl?... Men are not fidèle.... You see other girl—lots of other girl.”
“Now look here, you mustn’t say that. You’re the only girl in the world I give a snap of my finger for.... Just you.”