The tea had swept away his previous sensation of fatigue, even the happy stolidity that had succeeded it for an instant. He felt full of life and gayety, and a challenging mental activity. A similar challenging activity, he thought, shone in the eyes of the girl opposite to him.
“Thank God I can still be foolish!” he exclaimed. “And thank God that there are people in the world devoid of humor. My German friend was without humor. Only that fact enabled me to endure his prodigious collection of ailments. But for the heat I might even have revelled in them. He was asthmatic, without humor; dyspeptic, without humor. He had a bad cold in the head, without humor, and got up into the top berth with two rheumatic legs and a crick in the back, without humor. Had he seen the fun of himself, the fun would have meant much less to me.”
“You cruel person!”
“There is often cruelty in humor—perhaps not in yours, though, yet.”
“Why do you say—yet, like that?”
“The hair is such a kindly veil that I doubt the existence of cruelty behind it.”
He spoke with a sort of almost tender and paternal gentleness.
“I don’t believe you could ever be really cruel, Monsieur Emile.”
“Why not?”
“I think you are too intelligent.”