English mail day usually happened on Monday; on the Saturday before the
last remittance would arrive Marcella discovered that she had no money
at all. She told Louis with a little, perplexed laugh.
"Lord, and I've no cigarettes," he cried in dismay.
"Well, it's only one day," she began. He got nearly frantic.
"You know perfectly well I can't do without cigarettes," he cried. "If I
do I'll get all raked up. You know what it means if I get all raked
up--"
"Oh, don't always be threatening me with that," she cried hotly. "You
know I'm doing my best, Louis. But I tell you I wouldn't be a slave to
anything like cigarettes. I do believe St. Paul when he says, 'If thy
right hand offend thee cut it off.' _I_ would--if my right hand dared to
boss me."
"Probably you would," he sneered. "We all know how damned superior you
always are, and as for an emasculated old ass like St. Paul--blasted,
white-livered passive resister--"
She stared at him and laughed. Her laugh maddened him.
"I wonder why it is," she said quietly, "that if anyone conquers his
particular vice, people sneer at him and call him names? You seem to
think that curing a cancer in one's mind is rather an effeminate thing
to do, Louis--rather a priggish thing. I suppose if you get cured of
drinking you'll say you never did it for fear of being called a prig?"
"Oh, for God's sake stop theorizing and face facts!" he cried.
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