There was a shadow of emotion in her voice—almost like entreaty.
“Why do you ask?” I said. “Is some devil suddenly revealed in me, with this” (I lifted the bottle) “for his insidious procureur? I will throw it out of the window, if you like, here and now.”
“No,” she said, with a smile a little wistful—“don’t. Only—” she sat back, with a sigh—“I think—perhaps—I will not drink any wine.”
I rose very soberly, put the bottle in the rack overhead, and sat down again.
“There it is,” I said. “The Comtesse de Beaurepaire was quite right in suggesting that reflection to me. There is something demoralising to common natures in the mere thought of alcohol.”
“Don’t—please!” said Fifine distressfully. She leaned forward once more, with a little appealing motion of her hands.
“Don’t what?” said I.
“Call me that—attribute such motives to me. I—I did not mean you; but——”
“If you did not mean me, that is enough, then. There are only we two together here, Fifine, and I have no intention, I can assure you, of hunting through the corridor for a pot-companion.”
“No,” she said. “Please get down the wine again.”