“Has she? She liked her husband’s money, you know, and he’s not a bad sort, really, merely vulgar, quite good-natured.”
“She loves her children,” I said weakly. At that Clémentine looked round quickly.
“Do you call that a virtue?” she asked.
I stammered. “I don’t know, I suppose so. It seems to me human.”
“Well, my dear, when humanity has nothing more to recommend it than the fact that it cares for its young, I shall be ready to depart to another planet.” She sat down on a high stool, one knee over the other, a foot hung down, dangling a shabby shoe. Her face was full of merriment. She chuckled. Her eyes danced. She gave me, as she always did, the impression of containing in herself an immense fund of interest and gladness and of finding life much to her taste.
“You mustn’t destroy my belief in my love for my child,” I said, half laughingly.
“Your belief in it?” She wondered.
“Yes, in its being—worth something.”
“To which one?”