“Then ... why do you believe it ... now?”
“Because, since we have become friends, life seems pitiably short for such a friendship.”
She smiled without moving.
“That is a ... very beautiful ... compliment, monsieur.”
“It owes its beauty to its truth, madame.”
“And that reply is illogical,” she said, turning to look at me with brilliant eyes and a gay smile which emphasized the sensitive mouth’s faint droop. “Illogical, because truth is not always beautiful. As example: you were very near to death yesterday. That is the truth, but it is not beautiful at all.”
“Ah, madame, it is you who are illogical,” I said, laughing.
“I?” she cried. “Prove it!”
But I would not, spite of her challenge and bright mockery.