“And you would never doubt it? Never doubt it of a woman who dances every night, as I do, before the eyes of Paris?”
“Never.”
She gazed at me curiously, with tenderness and intentness. Her bosom shuddered; I saw the sob rising in her throat. When she spoke, the words came slowly; her eyes were misted over; she trembled as I clasped her.
“D’you know, I believe you’re the only living man who’d be fool enough to say that?”
“I was always a fool, Fiesole.”
I thought she would have kissed me, her lips came so near to mine. “But a dear fool, sometimes,” she whispered hoarsely; “a fool who always comes too late or too early—but a fool to the end.”
She stood up and my arms slipped down to her knees as I held her.
She laughed brokenly. “You nearly made me serious. It won’t do to be serious at three o’clock in the morning.”
“I won’t go till you’ve promised. Promise,” I urged.
She yawned. “I’m sleepy. You’ve worn me out.”