"I don't understand you at all," said Clotilde; "a thing that bores me bores me, and when anything hurts me I simply must push it away or go away myself."
"I used to be like you," said Odette; "I am still, in all that concerns my grief. For that there is no balm; nothing will ever heal it. Perhaps there is something exceptional in love; it takes possession of us, it makes us happy to an extent that blinds us to everything besides, or it wounds us to death. But all that is not love, and what tries to embitter us must carry its antidote within itself."
"When we love," said Clotilde, "nothing else can seriously affect us."
"Notwithstanding which, I assure you that I have often within the past two years been painfully affected, and I have not ceased to love."
"You think so, my poor Odette! But if Jean had continued to be with you, you would have had no feeling but for him."
"Clotilde, you are spoiled by happiness; you understand nothing!"
Clotilde shook her head. She felt that she had somewhat nettled her friend in unveiling her thought to her.
"You will come again all the same, Odette? Even to face my blind man?"
"If you wish," said Odette sadly.