“What are you thinking about?” said I.
He stroked his beard, where lurked a few gray hairs.
“I am thinking, my friend, that youth leaves us in this same way, at the time when we love it most, with a faint smile, and without a word to tell us whither. Mine played me this trick.”
“What a good idea of yours to sketch them both. Let me see the sketch.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“It can scarcely be called a sketch; it’s a mere scratch.”
“Show it, all the same.”
“My good Fabien, you ought to know that when I am obstinate I have my reasons, like Balaam’s ass. You will not see my sketch-book to-day, nor to-morrow, nor the day after.”
I answered with foolish warmth: