HOW ONE MAKES LOVE AT THIRTY
My sleeplessness while Nicolete slept had not been all ecstasy, for I had come to a bitter resolution; and next morning, when we were once more on our way, I took a favourable opportunity of conveying it to Nicolete.
"Nicolete," I said, as we rested awhile by the roadside, "I have something serious to say to you."
"Yes, dear," she said, looking rather frightened.
"Well, dear, it is this,—our love must end with our holiday. No good can come of it."
"But oh, why? I love you."
"Yes, and I love you,—love you as I never thought I could love again. Yet I know it is all a dangerous dream,—a trick of our brains, an illusion of our tastes."
"But oh, why? I love you."
"Yes, you do to-day, I know; but it couldn't last. I believe I could love you for ever; but even so, it wouldn't be right. You couldn't go on loving me. I am too old, too tired, too desillusione, perhaps too selfish."
"I will love you always!" said girl Nicolete.