"It is you who have grown older and sterner," she pouted. "It is you who have lost the gift of living to-day as though to-morrow were not. There was a time, was there not, John, when you did not care to sit always so far away?"
She laid her hand—ringless, over-manicured, but delicately white—— upon his. He smoothed it gently.
"You see, Sonia," he sighed, "troubles have come that harden the hearts even of the gayest of us."
She frowned.
"You are not going to remind me—" she began.
"If I reminded you of anything, Sonia," he interrupted, "I would remind you that you are a Frenchwoman."
She stretched out her hand restlessly and took one of the Russian cigarettes from a bowl by her side.
"You are not, by any chance, going to talk seriously, dear John?"
"I am," he assured her, "very seriously."
"Oh, la, la!" she laughed. "You, my dear, gay companion, you who have shaken the bells all your life, you are going to talk seriously! And to-night, when we meet again after so long. Ah, well, why should I be surprised?" she went on, with a pout.