"Ah, mon cher, is my tale so soon forgotten?" She asks. It is gentle, not in the least recriminating, as she inclines her head slightly so that it touches his and repeats herself, albeit not in the tones she'd given to the prince, "'There is nothing that shows more good sense than to believe one has none.'"

But there is truth and there is truth and there is truth. How many lies had she made real, how many realities had she made lie? It almost hardly matters what is and is not so. "But since you feel so now," she continues, in allowance to this, "may I ask what has caused it? Or would you prefer instead to simply sit a while. I shall make a sign for the door, and if anyone is made cross by it they may be cross with me."