"Monsieur, I gave you credit for better taste," she said, quietly, as he paused. "I have had so much of this so often; granted you are unusually eloquent, unusually graceful, but even with those accessories the tale is very tiresome; and it has one great drawback, you see—we neither of us believe it!"
"Believe! how can I make you believe? I tell you that ever since I saw you first I have been so changed that I have wondered if I lived or dreamed; I have felt all that once I disdained as only fit for boys and fools! What more can I tell you?—you must know that I speak truth."
"What a recantation! I am not a fitting hearer for it at all, nor likely to appreciate it. I will thank you far more to amuse me with your bonmots, which are really good, than to entertain me with your efforts in Romeo's strain, which, though very pretty, are very stale!"
"Wait!—for pity's sake. Doubt what you will, mock at what you will, but believe at least that I love you!"
She laughed softly.
"We do not believe in love—nous autres!"
"And yet men have gone to their death only for love of you!"
