He extended his hand, trying to inject some of his accustomed cheerfulness into the gesture and into the smile which somehow would not form naturally on his lips.
"This—is adieu—or au revoir?" he said solemnly.
"I hope—au revoir," she replied dully. "So, after all, you refuse to take my counsel, my advice, seriously?"
Peter shrugged. "I'm rather afraid I can't," he said. "You see, I'm young. And you can say to yourself, or out loud without fear of hurting my feelings, that I am—foolish. I guess it is one of the hardships of being young—this having to be foolish. Wasn't it to-day that I was to become immortal, with a knife through my floating ribs, or a bullet in my heart?
"As I grow older I will become more serious, with balance. Perish the thought! But in the end—shucks! Confucius, wasn't it—that dear old philosopher who could never find a king to try out his theories on—who said:
"The great mountain must crumble.
The strong beam must break.
The wise man must wither away like a plant."
She nodded.
"I am afraid you will never become serious, Mr. Moore. And perhaps that is one of the reasons why I've grown so—so fond of you in this short while. If I could take life—and death—as stoically, as happily, as you—oh, God!"
She shut her eyes. Tears were in their rims when she opened them again.
"Mr. Moore, I'll make a foolish confession, too, now. It is—I love you. And in return——"