She laughed until her eyes were moist with tears. “ Tiens ,” she cried, “he is dead, then!”

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?”