She looked up, with a whimsical, languid little smile. “Are they?” she asked lightly. “I’m rather tired of carp.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “You will permit me to admire your fine, frank disregard of their feelings.” “Oh, they have the past to remember,” she said. “And perhaps some day I shall go back to them. For the moment I amuse myself very well with cockchafers. They’re less tumultuous. And then, carp won’t come and perch on your finger. And then, one likes a change.—Now fly away, fly away, fly away home; your house is on fire, and your children will burn,” she crooned to the cockchafer, giving it never so gentle a push. But instead of flying away, it dropped upon the moss, and thence began to stumble, clumsily, blunderingly, towards the open meadow. “You shouldn’t have caused the poor beast such a panic,” he reproached her. “You should have broken the dreadful news gradually. As you see, your sudden blurting of it out has deprived him of the use of his faculties. Don’t believe her,” he called after the cockchafer. “She’s practising upon your credulity. Your house isn’t on fire, and your children are all safe at school.” “Your consideration is entirely misplaced,” she assured him, with the same slight whimsical smile. “The cockchafer knows perfectly well that his house isn’t on fire, because he hasn’t got any house. Cockchafers never have houses. His apparent concern is sheer affectation. He’s an exceedingly hypocritical little cockchafer.” “I should call him an exceedingly polite little cockchafer. Hypocrisy is the compliment courtesy owes to falsehood. He pretended to believe you. He would not have the air of doubting a lady’s word.” “You came as the emissary of the carp,” she said, “and now you stay to defend the character of their rival.” “To be candid, I don’t care a hang for the carp,” he confessed brazenly. “The unadorned fact is that I’m immensely glad to see you.” She gave a little laugh, and bowed with exaggerated ceremony. “Grand merci, Monsieur; vous me faites trop d’honneur,” she murmured. “Oh, no, not more than you deserve. I’m a just man, and I give you your due. I was boring myself into melancholy madness. The afternoon lay before me like a bumper of dust and ashes, that I must somehow empty. And then I saw you, and you dashed the goblet from my lips. Thank goodness (I said to myself), at last there’s a human soul to talk with; the very thing I was pining for, a clever and sympathetic woman.” “You take a great deal for granted,” laughed she. “Oh, I know you’re clever, and it pleases me to fancy that you’re sympathetic. If you’re not,” he pleaded, “don’t tell me so. Let me cherish my illusion.” She shook her head doubtfully. “I’m a poor hand at dissembling.” “It’s an art you should study,” said he. “If we begin by feigning an emotion, we’re as like as not to end by genuinely feeling it.”