Paul looked at her wistfully, for life seemed suddenly very blank and dismal. "What shall I do all that time without my best friend?"
"You will probably find another and forget her."
She was lying back among cushions, pink and terra-cotta, and a round black cushion framed her delicate head.
Paul said in a low voice, bending forward: "Do you think you are a woman whom men forget?"
Their eyes met. The game had grown very perilous. "Men may remember the princess," she replied, "but forget the woman."
"If it weren't for the woman inside the princess; what reason should I have for remembering?" he asked.
She fenced. "But, as it is, you don't see me very often."
"I know. But you are here—to be seen—not when I want you, for that would be every hour of the day—but, at least, in times of emergency. You are here, all the same, in the atmosphere of my life."
"And if I go abroad I shall no longer be in that atmosphere? Did I not say you would forget?"
She laughed. Then quickly started forward, and, elbow on knee and chin on palm, regarded him brightly. "We are talking like a couple of people out of Mademoiselle de Scudery," she said before he had time to reply. "And we are in the twentieth century, mon pauvre ami. We must be sensible. I know that you will miss me. And I will miss you too. Mais que voulez-vous? We have to obey the laws of the world we live in."