"I was only about to add, what would become of ourselves?"
"'_Qui s'excuse, s'accuse_,' says the adage," rejoined she gaily: "I neither do one nor the other. At the same time, let me confess to one thing of which I am capable, which is, of detesting any one who in this age of the world affects to give a tone of moralizing to a conversation. Now I presume you don't wish this. I will even take it for granted, that you would rather we were good friends, as we used to be long ago.--Oh dear, don't sigh that way!"
"Well, I am very sorry for it. It was wrong of _me_, and very wrong of _you_ to tell me of it. But dear me! is it so late? can it really be three o'clock?"
"I am a quarter past; but I think we must both be fast. You are going out?"
"A mere drive in the Champs Elysées, where I shall pay a few visits and be back to dinner. Will you dine with us?"
"I pray you to excuse me--don't forget I am a sick man."
"Well, then, we shall see you at the Opera?"
"I fear not. If I might ask a favour, it would be to take the volume of Balzac away with me."
"Oh, to be sure! But we have some others, much newer. You know 'Le Recherche de l'Absolu', already?"
"Yes; but I like 'Eugénie' still better. It was an old taste of mine, and as you quoted a proverb a few moments ago, let me give you another as trite and as true,--
said she, finishing; while with a smile, half playful, half sad, she turned toward the window, and I retired noiselessly, and without an adieu.
Heigho! how nervous and irritable I feel! The very sight of that handsome barouche that has driven from the hôtel, with its beautiful occupant lying listlessly back among the cushions, has set my heart a-beating far far too hurriedly. How is it that the laws that govern material nature are so inoperative in ours, and that a heart that never felt can make another feel? Heaven knows! It is not love; even my first passion, perhaps, little merited the name: but now, reading her as worldliness as taught roe to do-seeing how little relation exists between attractions and fascinations of the very highest order and any real sentiment, any true feeling--knowing how "Life" is her idol, how in that one idea is comprised all that vanity, self-love, false pride, and passion can form,--how is it that she, whom I recognise thus, that _she_ can move me? There is nothing so like a battle as a sham fight in a review.