"I comprehend!" she murmured to herself. "Monsieur is very worldly-wise. Monsieur has discovered that there is—how shall I say?—less atmosphere in a blue sky than in a gray one?"
Max glanced round at her. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being laughed at, but her clear azure eyes met his innocently, and her mouth was guiltless of smiles.
"I have had a sufficiency of blue sky," he said, and returned to his work.
"One is liable to think that, monsieur, until the rain falls!"
"So you doubt the endurance of my philosophy?"
She shrugged; she extended her pretty hands expressively.
"Monsieur is young!"
The words exasperated Max. Again it had arisen—the old argument. The anger smouldering in his heart since the girl's invasion flamed to speech.
"I could wish that the world was less ready with that opinion, mademoiselle! It knows very little of what it says."
"Possibly, monsieur! but you admit that—that you are scarcely aged." There was a quiver now about the pretty lips, a hint of a laugh in the eyes.