"Let us go no more in that direction," said the San Reve. "Such tauntings are but a childish barter of words."
The San Reve delivered this sentiment in a serene, high way that brought her honor. Then she lighted a cigarette and blew peaceful rings. Storri, encouraged in his soul by the return of his San Reve to reason, solaced himself with a fresh cigar. The two smoked in silent truce.
"It was a love quarrel, my San Reve!" said Storri.
"Only a love quarrel!" assented San Reve.
Silence and smoke; with Storri timid, shrinking from fresh offense and further outbreak.
Storri, fearing all who had no fear of him, feared the San Reve. Nor were his apprehensions void of warrant; the San Reve was of that hot and blinded strain which loves and slays.
"Your father dead," said Storri, pretending a perking interest, "your father dead, my San Reve, what then became of you?"
"I fell into the hands of a doting old architect of Paris. He was good to me; it was with him I learned my trade. No, I did not love him; but I was grateful. He died, and I came to Ottawa as a draughtswoman for the young engineer, Balue. I did not love Balue; he was tame. And then Ottawa, with those sodden Canadians, their Scotch whiskey, and narrow lives framed in with snow—how I loathed them! What a weariness of the heart they were, those frozen people! Then came you—Storri!"
The San Reve's gray-green eyes burned with white fire. She got up from the couch where she had lain curled like a tawny lioness.
"Yes; you came!" purred the San Reve, and she stooped and kissed Storri with her fierce lips. "Then for the first time I loved."