You simply don't appeal to me. Perhaps I
know you too well. What does it matter!"
He sighed and examined a sauce critically. They were lunching at
Prince's alone, at a small table near the wall.
"Your taste," he remarked a little spitefully, "would be considered
a trifle strange. Souspennier carries his years well, but he must
be an old man."
She sipped her wine thoughtfully.
"Old or young," she said, "he is a man, and all my life I have
loved men,--strong men. To have him here opposite to me at this
moment, mine, belonging to me, the slave of my will, I would give
--well, I would give--a year of my life--my new tiara--anything!"
"What a pity," he murmured, "that we cannot make an exchange, you
and I, Lucille and he!"
"Ah, Lucille!" she murmured. "Well, she is beautiful. That goes
for much. And she has the grand air. But, heavens, how stupid!"
"Stupid!" he repeated doubtfully.
She drummed nervously upon the tablecloth with her fingers.
"Oh, not stupid in the ordinary way, of course, but yet a fool. I
should like to see man or devil try and separate us if I belonged
to him--until I was tired of him. That would come, of course. It
comes always. It is the hideous part of life."
"You look always," he said, "a little too far forward. It is a
mistake. After all, it is the present only which concerns us.
Pages:
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178