“It is the end of travail,” she said. “The world is as tired and as content as we.”
“Thou art so content?” I asked, bending over her.
She drew a little from me, smiling.
“Not too content, monsieur. Perhaps ’tis by contrast with what has gone before.” She said it with a touch of coquetry, that last ingredient which goes to make a woman. For all my boorishness, I understood.
“Yes, thou art happy. I can see it by thine eyes. As for me, I will be happy when I see the roses blooming in thy cheeks again.”
She made an impatient gesture. “For shame upon such a loutish speech! Thou art not happy!”
“I would say——”
“You would say that the roses bloom not in my cheeks——”
“But, Mademoiselle——”
“Am I so pale, monsieur? And so uncomely? In my life I have heard nothing so ungallant! Think you I can find mirror and lady’s-maid in this wild place? Monsieur—if you like me not——”