"I like her," said the curate.
"Oh, that!—one likes so many. Why don't you love her?"
"Because I can only love one," said he.
"It would be indiscreet, of course, to ask about the 'one,'" said she. "No one, not even a stupid person like me, could go so far as that."
Blount by this time had recovered himself. He showed her quite a brave front. He was the saddest man on earth at that moment, I believe, yet he told himself he would die rather than let her know it.
"Your life!" said he. "Surely it is more valuable than all that comes to. A question addressed to me by you could hardly endanger your existence."
Perhaps she was a little chagrined at this sudden strength—at his calm taking of her question. Certainly her face changed.
"How can I tell?" said she petulantly. "One never knows what one's life is worth." She turned aside and stood with a frowning brow, as if thinking. Suddenly she turned to him again. The frown had gone. The smile was back again. The coquette was once more herself.
"What is your life worth?" asked she. Her face was radiant now; her eyes were fixed on his; her little slender figure seemed quite filled anew with hopeless frivolity.
"Nothing!" said Blount. He spoke the word quite evenly—with a smile, indeed; but in spite of his effort a terrible sadness underlay and dominated his intonation. What was life without love? And love was a thing the Fates refused him. Whom could he love, indeed, having once seen her?