"
"But you did nothing," I objected. "And you wouldn't. You were
merely amusing yourself."
She turned on me quickly with a flash of her old fire.
"Don't play with me!" she burst out. "My friend, you have never
yet given me a serious word."
"Nor any one else," I answered. "My dear Desiree, do you not
know that I am incapable of seriousness? Nothing in the world is
worth it."
"At least, you need not pretend," she retorted. "I meant once
for you to die. You know it. And since you pretend not to
understand me, I ask you--these are strange words from my lips--
will you forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive."
"My friend, you are becoming dull. An evasive answer should
always be a witty one. Must I ask you again?"
"That--depends," I answered, hardly knowing what to say.
"On--"
"On whether or not you were serious, once upon a time, when you
made a--shall we call it a confession? If you were, I offended
you in my own conceit, but let us be frank. I thought you were
acting, and I played my role. I do not yet believe that you were;
I am not conceited enough to think it possible."
"I do not say," Desiree began; then she stopped and added
hastily: "But that is past.
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