It isn't that at all."
"You're not tired of me?" queried Nick.
"No."
"If I were to die to-morrow for instance--and there's no telling, you
know, Muriel,--you'd be a little sorry?"
Again, though scarcely aware of it, she resented the question. "Why do
you ask me that? Of course I should be sorry."
"Of course," acquiesced Nick. "But all the king's horses and all the
king's men wouldn't bring me back again. That's the worst of being
mortal. You can't dance at your own funeral."
"What do you mean?" There was a note of exasperation in Muriel's
voice. She saw that he had an object in view, but his method of
attaining it was too tortuous for her straightforward understanding.
He explained himself with much patience. His mood had so completely
changed that she could barely recall to mind the vision that had so
appalled her but a few minutes before.
"What I mean is that it's infernal to think that some one may be
shedding precious tears on your grave and you not there to see.
I've often wondered if one could get a ticket of leave for such an
occasion." He smiled down at her with baffling directness. "I should
value those tears unspeakably," he said.
Muriel made a slight movement of impatience. The discussion seemed to
her inconsequent and unprofitable.
Nick began to enumerate his points.
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