"Yes, I am."
"I'm going down to Fontainebleau for a bit. The doctor says I must get out of Paris and keep quiet, or I shan't be able to ride at Auteuil. I don't believe a word he says, croaking old woman! But—hang it all, I'm bound to ride Sam Slick at Auteuil. Kirby can look after the string while I'm at Fontainebleau. I'm going there this afternoon. Come with me. I am not much, but I am better than the Seine. My kisses will not choke the life out of you, as the Seine's will. We will spend a week together, and talk matters over, and sit in the sun, and at the end of it we shall both laugh—how we shall laugh—when you remember this." And he pointed to the swirling water.
A thought slid through Annette's mind like a snake through grass.
"He will hear of it. He is sure to hear of it. That will hurt him worse than if I were drowned."
"I don't care what I do," she said, meeting his eyes without flinching. It was he who for a moment winced when he saw the smouldering flame in them.
He laughed again, the old light, inconsequent laugh which came to him so easily, with which he met good and bad fortune alike.
"When you are as old as I am," he said not unkindly, "you will do as I am doing now, take the good the gods provide you, and trouble your mind about nothing else. For there's nothing in the world or out of it that is worth troubling about. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing."
"Nothing," echoed Annette hoarsely.