“That’s praiseworthy,” said Aristide.
“And I love him very much.”
“That’s unfortunate!” said Aristide.
“Unfortunate?”
“Evidently!” said Aristide.
Their eyes met. They burst out laughing. The lady quickly recovered and the tears sprang again.
“One can’t jest with a heavy heart; and mine is very heavy.” She broke down through self-pity. “Oh, I am ashamed!” she cried.
She turned away from him, burying her face in her hands. Her dress, cut low, showed the nape of her neck as it rose gracefully from her shoulders. Two little curls had rebelled against being drawn up with the rest of her hair. The back of a dainty ear, set close to the head, was provoking in its pink loveliness. Her attitude, that of a youthful Niobe, all tears, but at the same time all curves and delicious contours, would have played the deuce with an anchorite.
Aristide, I would have you remember, was a child of the South. A child of the North, regarding a bewitching woman, thinks how nice it would be to make love to her, and wastes his time in wondering how he can do it. A child of the South neither thinks nor wonders; he makes love straight away.
“Madame,” said Aristide, “you are adorable, and I love you to distraction.”