“Poor child; I am sorry for you,” she suddenly said.
“Why?”
“Because you are so weak; you have such an air of exhaustion. What do you do to make you like this? I am sure you ought to be given some sort of iron tonic, like the anaemic girls.”
“Do you really think I am so weak?” asked Cæsar.
“Isn’t it written all over you?”
“Well, anyway, I am stronger than you, Countess.”
“In a discussion, perhaps. But otherwise.... You have no strength except in your brains.”
“And in my hands. Give me your hand.”
The Countess gave him her hand and Cæsar pressed it tighter and tighter.
“You are strong after all,” she said.