“I? No; love is sacred.” She had boasted to Maurice that she was without conscience; she had only smothered it. “Come; is she beautiful?”
“Yes.” These questions disturbed him.
“Certainly she must be worthy or you would not love her. She is rich?”
“That does not matter; I am.” He was wishing that Maurice would hurry back; the desire to fly was returning.
“And she rejected you and sent you to the army?”
“She has not rejected me, though I dare say she would, had I the presumption to ask her.”
“A faint heart, they say—”
“My heart is not faint; it is my tongue.” He rose and wandered about the room. Her breath was like orris, and went to his head like wine.
“Monsieur,” she said, “is it possible that you have succumbed to the charms of Madame the countess?”
He laughed. “One may admire exquisite bric-a-brac without loving it.”