"Well, why did you ask for it, then?"
"I had a very good reason."
One could never describe the expression of Antony's face. If one goes on saying "mocking," or "cynical," or "ironical," or "quizzical," it gives no impression of what it is. It is a mixture of all four, and yet laughing, and—and—tender, and insouciant, and gay. He is himself, and there could never be any one like him. One feels as if all common things must vanish and shrivel up before his style of wit.
One could think of him as finishing his game of chess calmly while the officers of the Terror waited to conduct him to the guillotine. He is exactly—oh, but exactly!—grandmamma's idea of a gentleman. I wish she had seen more of him.
There is nothing poseur or dramatic about him. He is quite simple, although he laughs at things all the time. I seem to have learned more of the world, and the tone of everything, just talking to him, than from all the books I have read lately. What would it be like if he were interested in anything intensely, if something moved him deeply, if he really cared?
As I sat there I thought of many things. An atmosphere of home had suddenly come into the room. I could almost believe I could hear grandmamma's voice.
"What are you thinking of so seriously, Comtesse?" he asked, lazily.
"I was wondering—"
"Well?"
"I was wondering if anything really mattered in life; if one could grow old and remain numb all the time; if things are real; if—oh, does anything matter? Tell me, you who know."