“As I am, I can see no reason why you shouldn’t make furious love to me, if it would amuse you. There’s no harm in firing your pistol at a person who’s bullet-proof,” she laughed.
“No; it’s merely a wanton waste of powder and shot,” said he. “However, I shouldn’t stick at that. The deuce of it is.... You permit the expression?”
“I’m devoted to the expression.”
“The deuce of it is, you profess to be married.”
“Do you mean to say that you, with your unprincipled foreign notions, would be restrained by any such consideration as that?” she wondered.
“I shouldn’t be for an instant—if I weren’t in love with you.”
“Comment donc? Déjà?” she cried with a laugh.
“Oh, déjà! Why not? Consider the weather—consider the scene. Is the air soft, is it fragrant? Look at the sky—good heavens!—and the clouds, and the shadows on the grass, and the sunshine between the trees. The world is made of light today, of light and colour, and perfume and music. Tutt’ intorno canta amort amor, amore! What would you have? One recognises one’s affinity. One doesn’t need a lifetime. You began the business at the Wohenhoffens’ ball. To-day you’ve merely put on the finishing touches.”
“Oh, then I am the woman you met at the masked ball?” she cried.
“Look me in the eye, and tell me you’re not,” he defied her.