CHAPTER XXIV
UNDER THE TARPAULIN
"No, Monsieur, you have been our guest—pleeze"
Linda, standing before the doorway leading into the tap room of the Café of Many Tongues, seized his open hand with both her own, closing his fingers on the franc notes. Then she patted the back of his clenched fist, a little coquettishly yet very gently, and pushed it away as if the matter were quite settled.
"But, Mademoiselle, you have done so much!" And in turn he seized her hands, trying to force the notes into the unwilling fingers.
"Pleeze, Monsieur, I ask you again not to hurt me—here."
Her hand sought her heart, not at all in affectation but in the natural way of her race. The corners of her mouth trembled. The soft brown eyes, which seemed as if they must have been stolen from some Madonna's portrait, that is when the more earthly provocativeness had fled, trembled, too. Farewells were such ultimate things to one of her temperament—and they were indeed likely to be final in this out of the way corner of the world, especially in the casual Café of Many Tongues.
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