"How can that be?" asked Mirabelle, with a little laugh. "We love each other—ça suffit. It's impossible to be too much together."
Her voice was quite even, but that was not to say that she did not scent the approaching issue.
"But people say—" began Andrew.
"Oh, lalà! People say! What don't they say, my poor friend? What won't they continue to say, however you choose to live, and whatever you choose to do? That's Paris, and that's the smallest village in Brittany, and everything in between, into the bargain. Nowadays, one must do as one sees fit, and have the courage of one's convictions. We've chosen our way. It's too late to think of what people say. After all, it's gossip, all this, and gossip is a snake. One kills it if one can; but, in the long run, it's better to step over it and forget. What does gossip amount to? If you're seen always with your wife, it's because you can't trust her alone; if you're never seen with her, it's because you've interests elsewhere. If you spend your nights in public, you're a profligate; and if you spend them at home, you're a secret drinker. 'People say'! Let them say, Andrew. It can't make any difference."
"Our—our friendship is the talk of the American Colony," said Andrew, almost savagely.
Mirabelle looked at him suddenly, with a curious crinkling of her forehead. The issue now lay clear before her.
"And you are ashamed of that?" she asked.
She leaned back wearily, closing her eyes.
"Yes, of course you are," she added. "I wonder why it is that we—nous autres—never seem to realize what it means, all this. A little laughter, a kiss or two, and the rest, a 'je t'aime' which means something less than nothing, and then—They speak of the women whom men abuse! What is that to being used—and flung aside?"
"Mirabelle!"