"You will do better never to say it."

"Why?"

"Because only one of two things can come of it."

"What?"

"Either I shall not accept: then you will have a grudge against
me; or I shall accept: then you will have a sorry mistress; a
woman who is nervous, ill, sad, or gay with a gaiety sadder than
grief, a woman who spits blood and spends a hundred thousand
francs a year. That is all very well for a rich old man like the
duke, but it is very bad for a young man like you, and the proof
of it is that all the young lovers I have had have very soon left
me." I did not answer; I listened. This frankness, which was
almost a kind of confession, the sad life, of which I caught some
glimpse through the golden veil which covered it, and whose
reality the poor girl sought to escape in dissipation, drink, and
wakefulness, impressed me so deeply that I could not utter a
single word.

"Come," continued Marguerite, "we are talking mere childishness.
Give me your arm and let us go back to the dining-room. They
won't know what we mean by our absence."

"Go in, if you like, but allow me to stay here."

"Why?"