“If that’s true, I’m sorry,” she said seriously.
“So am I.”
“Why should it be true?”
“I’ve often puzzled over it. My theory is—”
She laughed. “Do you know, you always begin that way? ‘My theory is.’ But go on, I’m interested.... I like your theories.... You don’t care if I say what I think; do you?”
“Oh, dear, no!” he smiled. “I was only thinking how full of theories I am. I haven’t breathed half of them aloud yet.... I wouldn’t dare.... Well, my theory is that two people who—uh—”
“Yes?” She was sitting cross-legged on the floor and looking steadily up at him.
He looked down at her a second or two, studying her frank eyes.
“Would you mind sitting on a chair?” he asked.
“Mais, oui,” yet she did not stir. “But I am quite comfy here, mon père.”