"Have you ? They all say that you fill your place well."
"I have paid high to do it."
"What you thought high when you paid," she said, smiling sadly.
I would not do her the wrong of any pretence; she was entitled to my honesty.
"I still think it high," I said, "but not too high."
"Nothing is too high?"
"But others must help to pay my score. You know that."
"Yes, I know it."
"And this girl will know it."
"She wouldn't have it otherwise."
"I know, I know, I know. She would not. It's strange to have you here now."
"Max would come. I didn't wish it. Yet—" She smiled for a moment and added: "Yet in a way I did wish it. I was drawn here. It seemed to concern me. Don't laugh. It seemed to be part of my story, too; I felt that I must be there to hear it. Are you laughing?"
"I've never laughed."
"You're good and kind and generous. No, I think you haven't. I'm glad 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
