“Why not?”
“Because she never comes there.”
A memory of an affair made André smile, and admit it was often true.
“Very often. And if by chance she comes, be sure your absence will deepen her liking for you.”
A short silence came. They had reseated themselves, and Mateo said—
“Now listen, please.”
CHAPTER IV
Three years ago I had not the grey hairs that you now see, and was thirty-seven years of age, though I felt but twenty-two. I do not know precisely when my youth passed from me, and it is hard for me to realize that it has reached its end. People have told you that I was one of the gadabouts of passion. That is false. I respected Love and I never degraded her. Scarcely ever have I caressed a woman whom I did not passionately love. If I were to name or number these loves to you you would be surprised for they were but a few. I easily remember that I have never loved a blonde. I have always ignored those pale objects of worship. What is furthermore true, is that, for me, love has not been a mere pleasure or pastime. It has been my very life. If I were to take out of my life all the thoughts and actions that had the woman for their sole end, there would remain nothing but emptiness—space. This much said, I may now recount to you what I know of Concha Perez.