And wiser men than Alphonse Giraud could not have enlightened her.
"Then you are incapable of feeling," he cried, spreading out his hands as if in invocation to the trees to hear him.
"That may be, but I do not see that it is proved by the fact that I am not always grave.

You, yourself, are gay enough when others are by, and it is then that I like you best.

It is only when we are alone that you are--tragic.

Is that--heart, Alphonse?
And are those who laugh heartless?
I doubt it." "You know I love you," he muttered gloomily, and the expression on his round face did not seem at home there.
"Well," she answered, with a severity gathered heaven knows whence--I cannot think they taught it to her in the convent--"you have told me so twice since you became aware of my continued existence at the ball last month.

But you are hopelessly serious to-day.