"Every one who is sincere—myself included."
"Be sincere with me now, and I'll go back to Paris to-morrow like a shorn lamb. Be sincere about Monsieur Delarey."
Hermione sat quite still for a moment with the bundle of letters in her lap. At last she said:
"It's difficult sometimes to tell the truth about a feeling, isn't it?"
"Ah, you don't know yourself what the truth is."
"I'm not sure that I do. The history of the growth of a feeling may be almost more complicated than the history of France."
Artois, who was a novelist, nodded his head with the air of a man who knew all about that.
"Maurice—Maurice Delarey has cared for me, in that way, for a long time. I was very much surprised when I first found it out."
"Why, in the name of Heaven?"
"Well, he's wonderfully good-looking."