Page:In a winter city, by Ouida.djvu/185

 "Plus on est fou, plus on rit," said Della Rocca, sketching arabesques with his pen. "Nay, that is too impolite in me to charming Madame Mila. But, like all old proverbs, it is more true than elegant."

"Do you know, Madame," he continued, with a little hesitation, "I have often ventured to think that, despite your brilliancy, and your position, and all your enviable fate, you are not altogether—quite happy? Am I right? Or have I committed too great an impertinence to be answered?"

"No impertinence whatever," said the Lady Hilda, a little wearily. "You may be right; I don't know; I am not unhappy certainly; I have nothing to be unhappy about; but—most things seem very stupid to me. I confess Mila's endless diversions and excitements are quite beyond me. There is such a terrible sameness in everything."

"Because you have no deeper interests," he answered her. He still sat near her at her writing-table beside the fire, and was playing with the little jewelled boy who held her pen-wiper.

She did not answer him; and he continued