d of
it, because----"

"Yes? Why?"

"Because even now I can't," she whispered. "No, don't think I mean--I
mean a thing which would oblige you to laugh now. It's all over, all
over. But that it should have been, Augustin?" My name slipped from
unconscious lips. "That it should have been isn't bad to me; it's good.
That's wicked? I can't help it. It's the thing--the thing of my life.
I've no place like yours. I've nothing to make it come second. Ah, I'm
forgetting again how old I am. How you always make me forget it! I
mustn't talk like this."

"We shall never, I suppose, talk like this again. You go back to Paris?"

"Yes, soon. I'm glad."

"But it's not hard to you now?"

She seemed to reflect, as though she were anxious to give me an answer
accurately true.

"Not very hard now," she said at last, looking full at me. "Not very
hard, but very constant, always with me. I love them all, all my folk.
But it's always there."

"You mean--What do you mean? The thought of me?"

"Yes, or the thought that somehow I have just missed. I'm not miserable.
And I like to dream--to be gorgeous, splendid, wicked in dreams." She
gave a laugh and pressed my hand for a moment. "Tote grows pretty," she
said. "Don't you think so?"

"Tote was unhappy with me, and I let her go. Yes, she's pretty; she
won't be like you, though."

"I'll appeal to you again in five, in ten years," said she, smiling,
pleased with my covert praise. "Oh, it's pleasant to see you again," she
went on a moment later. "I'm a bad penitent. I wish I could be with you
always. No, I am not dreaming now. I mean, just in Forstadt and seeing
you."

"A moment ago you were glad to go back to Paris."

"Ah, you assume more ignorance of us than you have. Mayn't I be glad of
one thing and wish another?"

"True; and men can do that too."

I felt the old charm of the quick word coming from the beautiful lips,
the twofold appeal. Though passion was gone, pleasure in her remained;
my love was dead. As I sat there I wished it alive again; I longed to be
back in the storm of it, even though I must battle the storm again.

"After all," she said, with a glance at me, "I have my share in you. You
can't think of your life without thinking of me. I'm something to you.
I'm one among the many foolish things--You don't hate the foolish
things?"

"On my soul, I believe not one of them; and if you're one, I love one of
them."

"I like you to say that."

A long silence fell