myself; ridiculous to me, even at at so early a stage of our intimacy, as was the notion. But I saw that his look was not one of surprised irritation. It was not one of dissent. He continued looking at me . . . ah, his serious eyes! . . . whatever else he was seeing in his perturbed mind.
"Well", I continued, "isn't that probable? Have I made you angry by hinting at such a stupidity . . . . such an aesthetic tragedy?"
"No, no," he returned hastily,—"of course not!" And then with a laugh as curious as that look of his, for it was not his real, his cheerful and heart-glad laugh, but one that rang false even to being ill-humored, he added . . . "By God, you have spoken the truth! Yes, to the dot on the i!"
I did not pursue the subject. I saw that it was one, whatever else was part of it, that was better left for Imre himself to take up at some other time; or not at all. Apparently, I had stumbled on one little romance; possibly on a grande passion! In either case it was a matter not dead, if moribund it might be.
