Suzette came to dinner—I thought how vulgar she looked—and that if her hands were white they were podgy and the nails short. The three black hairs irritated my cheek when she kissed me—I was brutal and moved my head in irritation—.
"Tiens?! Mon Ami!"—she said and pouted.
"Amuse me!" I commanded—.
"So! it is not love then, Nicholas, thou desirest—Bear!"
"Not in the least—I shall never want love again probably. Divert me!—tell me—tell me of your scheming little mouse's brain, and your kind little heart—How is it 'dans le metier'?"
Suzette settled herself on the sofa, curled up among the pillows like a plump little tabby cat. She lit a cigarette—.
"Very middling," she whiffed—"Cases of love where all my good counsel remains untaken—a madness for drugs—very foolish—A drug—yes to try—but to continue!—Mon Dieu! they will no longer make fortunes 'dans le metier'—"
"When you have made your fortune, Suzette, what will you do with it?"
"I shall buy that farm for my mother—I shall put Georgine into a convent for the nobility, and arrange a large dot for her—and for me?—I shall gamble in a controlled way at Monte Carlo—."
"You won't marry then, Suzette?"