"I make it only life."
"You are too young to be pessimistic," she said.
"And you are too fortunate in life to be unhappy," I answered.
"But you said life was but a choice of unhappinesses."
"Only to the discontented."
"Oh!" said she. "Instead of a pessimist you are a philosopher."
"I sincerely trust I'm neither."
"So do I, cousin," she laughed, "if we are to be friends. I don't like
philosophers; which is natural, doubtless; and as a pessimist I prefer
no rival."
"Which is also natural," I added. "And I promise not to interfere with
your prerogative nor do the Socrates act again."
"_Entre nous_, I think you're wise; neither becomes you particularly."
I laughed. "You're frank."
"It's the privilege of cousins," she replied.
"Oh!" said I. "I'm glad you think so."
"That is--in matters strictly cousinly," she added quickly.
"I shall remember," I said.
She gave me a quick glance. "Can you remember several years back?" she
said.
(So, she had recognized me.)
"That depends," said I. "I have a bad memory except for pleasant
things."
"Then I am quite sure you will remember," she laughed, and fell to
picking a rose apart, petal by petal.
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