Even her companion's long-trained audacity was not bold enough to force her on a theme she thus refused.
"Forgive me," he murmured hurriedly, "it is hard sometimes not to speak out one's thoughts."
"I thought the hardship rather lay in being sometimes compelled to do so."
"Yo will jest!"
"Well, jests are better than tragedies. Life is always jostling the two together."
"We are like enough to have one tragedy, madame, if that hotheaded courier's suspicions point the same way as yours do,"—he spoke irritably, inconsequently; for he was both checked and incensed.
"It is not likely they will ever do so."
"Why? Suppose—merely suppose—your fear aright, and that Conrad and your new friend ever meet under your root; what then?"
She did not reply for a moment, whilst a shadow of many memories, tinged with something of a smile passed over her features.
"What then? Why then I should know the truth of this matter, which Monsieur mon ami here refuses to tell me."
He felt the sting; and he knew that he had better provoke no more encounters with a woman's wit.
