"Nor succeed, if we did, madame," she retorted, and then the flash of anger left her face. "You will forgive me," she cried, taking my hand. "I forget myself; you will rest and take tea with me."
I would have bargained my soul for a cup of tea, but I ignored the offer, and continued, "I have come to speak with you on a matter of importance."
"Be seated," she answered, coldly, and she, too, sat and waited.
She plagued me because of her calmness and dignity, the air of superiority she assumed towards me.
"Don't you think this farce has been played long enough, mademoiselle?" I asked, scornfully, and she merely raised her eyebrows, and maintained her unruffled composure.
"This Arcadian love-making," I cried, reddening with vexation, "this whispering of paradise, this thistle-down entanglement. Don't you think it is time to say good-bye?"
"Quite," she answered, with supreme contempt. "Good-bye," and she returned to the window.
Then something—who can follow the subtle changes that occur in a woman's heart?—something came into mine, and instead of anger I felt a pang of pity for the girl who so disdained me. I walked towards her, and laid my hand upon her arm.
"You know it must be so," I said.
"Yes, it must be so."