“It wouldn’t be right,” she declared. “That is—it wouldn’t be loyal of me. Oh! can’t you understand? I should hate myself—afterward.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Then it is more serious than I supposed.”
“You couldn’t help me, if I did tell you,” she managed to say at length. “No one can help me. I’ve just got to go on and bear it, I suppose.”
“But I wouldn’t tell a soul,” he insisted, his lips close to her cheek. “And perhaps I could help you. Little girl—whatever it is I’ll never tell a soul. There—do you believe me? Ah! my poor little playmate—you were so happy this afternoon when we met.”
“I’m never really happy,” he heard her murmur. “I’ve never been really happy for a whole day in my life,” she continued, twisting her handkerchief nervously into a hard moist knot. “Oh, can’t you understand?”
“And who has?” he argued cheerily. “Happy for a whole day! Ah, no, my dear! One is never happy for a whole day. Happiness is never more than a question of seconds, and even they are rare. Happy for a whole day! Parbleu! you do not ask much, do you, little gourmande.”
“So many people are happy,” she faltered.
“You’re not ill?” he ventured. “Bah! Not with that splendid health of yours. Then what? Tell me, are you in love?”
She started.
“If you are, you’d better get out of it—love’s a terrible game. It doesn’t pay. It’s about as stupid a pastime as being jealous. Your eyes are too blue to be jealous. Come, be frank with me—am I right?”