The least presuming of men might well have had the thought which came
near rendering this poor lover beside himself; it was this: "If I do
not tell her now that I love her I am a fool," he kept saying to
himself.
Neither spoke; and there came between the pair one of those deep
silences that are crowded with thoughts. The countess examined Paz
covertly, and Paz observed her in a mirror. Buried in an armchair like
a man digesting his dinner, the image of a husband or an indifferent
old man, Paz crossed his hands upon his stomach and twirled his thumbs
mechanically, looking stupidly at them.
"Why don't you tell me something good of Adam?" cried Clementine
suddenly. "Tell me that he is not volatile, you who know him so well."
The cry was fine.
"Now is the time," thought poor Paz, "to put an insurmountable barrier
between us. Tell you good of Adam?" he said aloud. "I love him; you
would not believe me; and I am incapable of telling you harm. My
position is very difficult between you."
Clementine lowered her head and looked down at the tips of his
varnished boots.
"You Northern men have nothing but physical courage," she said
complainingly; "you have no constancy in your opinions."
"How will you amuse yourself alone, madame?" said Paz, assuming a
careless air.
"Are not you going to keep me company?"
"Excuse me for leaving you.
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