see, I have not known her long, but she has very few friends and I
think that she would miss me. Perhaps," he added, after a second's
pause, "I care for her too much."

"It is not for you," she answered scornfully, "to care too much.
An Englishman, he cares never enough. A woman to him is something
amusing, - his companion for a little of his spare time, something
to be pleased about, to show off to his friends, - to share, even,
the passion of the moment. But an Englishman he does not care too
much. He never cares enough. He does not know what it is to care
enough."

"Mademoiselle, there may be truth in what you say, and again there
may not. We have the name, I know, of being cold lovers, but at
least we are faithful."

She held up her hand with a little grimace.

"Oh, how I do hate that word!" she exclaimed. "Who is there, indeed,
who wishes that you would be faithful? How much we poor women do
suffer from that! Why can you never understand that a woman would
be cared for very, very much, with all the strength and all the
passion you can conceive, but let it not last for too long. It gets
weary. It gets stale. It is as you say, - the Englishman he cares
very little, perhaps, but he cares always; and the woman, if she be
an artiste and a woman, she tires. But good afternoon, Mr. Laverick!
I must not keep you here on the pavement talking of these frivolous
matters. You come to-night?"

"You are very kind," Laverick said. "If I may come until eleven