"What do you call living?"
"Being loved," she said, and looked up at him.
"You poor little thing!" he said, only partly in earnest.
"Yes, I'm sorry for the girl I was.... I was rather a nice girl, Duane. You remember me before I married."
"Yes, I do. You were a corker. You are still."
She nodded: "Yes, outwardly. Within is—nothing. I am very, very old; very tired."
He said no more. She sat listlessly watching the dusk-moths hovering among the pinks. Far away in the darkness rockets were rising, spraying the sky with fire; faint strains of music came from the forest.
"Their Fête Galante has begun," she said. "Am I detaining you too long, Duane?"
"No."
She smiled: "It is rather amusing," she observed, "my coming to you for my morals—to you, Duane, who were once supposed to possess so few."