on the couch, engaged in rolling cigarettes with remarkable skill and celerity, and had quite a pile on the tabouret beside her. I sat and watched the supple fingers and the red, red lips, and the dark face, changing with every wave of feeling.
“There,” she said, at last, in that queer, chipped soft Creole which defies transcription, and she pushed away papers and tobacco. “That will do for this evening. Take one, chè.”
I took one and lighted it. I knew that the term of endearment had no meaning.
“My friend,” she said suddenly, turning to me with intent gaze, “do you know where doudoux has gone?”
“No,” I answered, “he did not tell me. He said only that his business was calling him away.”
“Business! Ohé! And you believe that?”
“Why shouldn’t I believe it, Cecily?”
“If it were merely business, he could have taken me along. Tambou! I would have hidden in some little, little corner! I would not have been in the way.”
She flung her cigarette from her with a swift fury, not looking to see where it struck. I got up and stamped it out. She burst into sudden laughter as she watched me—the mirth of the careless South at the careful North.
“All the same,” she said, with conviction, “he is growing weary of me; I annoy him; I can see it. It was, of course, inevitable. Soon he will be sending me away. Ohé!” and she stretched her arms above her head with that gesture I had seen before. “Ah
