“He is talking foolish things that I do not understand,” said Carlotta, putting her hand on my arm.
“It is called sham cynicism, my dear,” said I, “and we all ought to be ashamed of ourselves.”
“What do you like best to talk about?” Judith asked sweetly.
“Myself. And so does everybody,” replied Carlotta.
We laughed, and for a time talk ceased to be allusive. But later, over our coffee, while the band was playing loudly some new American march, and Carlotta and Pasquale were laughing together, Judith drew near me.
“You did not answer my question about those two, Marcus.”
My fingers trembled as I lit a fresh cigarette.
“He is not a man to whom any woman’s destiny should be entrusted.”
“And is she a woman on whom a man should stake his life’s happiness?”
“God knows,” said I, setting my teeth.