Clifford eyed her with growing alarm.
“Do you know why I came?” she said.
“No,” he replied uneasily, “I don’t.”
“How long have you made love to me?”
“Well,” he admitted, somewhat startled—“I should say—for about a year.”
“It is a year, I think. Are you not tired?”
He did not answer.
“Don’t you know that I like you too well to—to ever fall in love with you?” she said. “Don’t you know that we are too good comrades—too old friends for that? And were we not—do you think that I do not know your history, Monsieur Clifford?”
“Don’t be—don’t be so sarcastic,” he urged; “don’t be unkind, Valentine.”
“I’m not. I’m kind. I’m very kind—to you and to Cécile.”
“Cécile is tired of me.”
“I hope she is,” said the girl, “for she deserves a better fate. Tiens , do you know your reputation in the Quarter? Of the inconstant, the most inconstant—utterly incorrigible and no more serious than a gnat on a summer night. Poor Cécile!”
Clifford looked so uncomfortable that she spoke more kindly.
“I like you. You know that. Everybody does. You are a spoiled child here. Everything is permitted you and everyone makes allowance, but everyone cannot be a victim to caprice.”