She made a gesture of impatience. “Why do you hate me?”
“Hate you, mademoiselle? I do not hate anybody. It is the most stupid of all the emotions. I have never hated—not even my enemies.”
“What Christian resignation!”
“As for hating you, of all people! Why... I consider you adorable. I envy Leandre every day of my life. I have seriously thought of setting him to play Scaramouche, and playing lovers myself.”
“I don’t think you would be a success,” said she.
“That is the only consideration that restrains me. And yet, given the inspiration that is given Leandre, it is possible that I might be convincing.”
“Why, what inspiration do you mean?”
“The inspiration of playing to so adorable a Climene.”
Her lazy eyes were now alert to search that lean face of his.
“You are laughing at me,” said she, and swept past him into the theatre on her pretended quest. There was nothing to be done with such a fellow. He was utterly without feeling. He was not a man at all.