“Yes, but you in your turn, you will agree that the food often proves in time to be deadly.”
“No, not when one loves truly, as I do. Do you think that you will not love me so well after having possessed me?”
“No, it’s because I think quite otherwise, that I dread to make the moment of parting so bitter.”
“I see I must yield to your logic. I should like to see the food on which you feed your brain, otherwise your books. Will you let me come upstairs?”
“Certainly, but you will be caught.”
“How?”
“Come and see.”
We went to her room, and I found that all her books were Portuguese, with the exception of Milton, in English, Ariosto, in Italian, and Labruyere’s “Characters,” in French.
“Your selection gives me a high idea of your mental qualities,” said I, “but tell me, why do you give such a preference to Camoens and all these Portuguese authors?”
“For a very good reason, I am Portuguese myself.”