“Oh, no, m’sieu’, no! It is not possible. I feel it now in my head and in all of me. Oh, I feel so warm all, through, and my heart it beats so very fast! Oh, no, m’sieu’, no more!”
Her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes had become softer and more brilliant under the influence of the potent liqueur.
“Well, well, I’ll let you off this time; but next time—next time, remember.”
He raised the glass once more, and let the cordial drain down lazily.
He had said, “next time”—she noticed that. He seemed very fond of this strong liqueur. She placed the bottle on the table, her own glass beside it.
“For a minute, a little minute,” she said suddenly, and went quickly into the other room.
He coolly picked up the bottle of liqueur, poured his glass full once more, and began drinking it off in little sips. Presently he stood up, and throwing back his shoulder, with a little ostentation of health, he went over to the chintz-covered chair, and sat down in it. His mood was contented and brisk. He held up the glass of liqueur against the sunlight.
“Better than any Benedictine I ever tasted,” he said. “A dozen bottles of that would cure this beastly cold of mine. By Jove! it would. It’s as good as the Gardivani I got that blessed day when we chaps of the Ninetieth breakfasted with the King of Savoy.” He laughed to himself at the reminiscence. “What a day that was, what a stunning day that was!”
He was still smiling, his white teeth showing humorously, when Sophie again entered the room. He had forgotten her, forgotten all about her. As she came in he made a quick, courteous movement to rise—too quick; for a sharp pain shot through his breast, and he grew pale about the lips. But he made essay to stand up lightly, nevertheless.
She saw his paleness, came quickly to him, and put out her hand to gently force him back into his seat, but as instantly decided not to notice his indisposition, and turned towards the table instead. Taking the bottle of cordial, she brought it over, and not looking at him, said: