Clodagh smiled, as she came slowly forward.
"Not since my cousin and I used to smoke in the top branches of an apple tree in Ireland. I should be afraid to try the experiment again; I might lose an illusion. No other cigarettes could taste like those stolen ones!"
She gave a little sigh, then a little laugh, and seated herself.
Lady Frances looked up from the cigarette she was drawing from her case.
"Illusions!" she said. "Why, life is all illusions at your age!" She paused; then, after a moment's silence, went on again, but in a slower, more considered voice: "You thought I was jesting at dinner, when I asked you to come south with me. But I wasn't. I meant it." She struck a match and lighted her cigarette. "You don't know how you would enjoy Nice. You lost yourself in the delights of roulette at Venice. Think what Monte Carlo would be!"
With a sudden tumultuous confusion, Clodagh flushed.
"I—I have ceased to care about things like that," she said in a hurried voice.
Lady Frances's expression changed to one of deep interest, sharpened by surprise.
"Ceased to care?" she repeated softly. "Since when? And why?"
"Since"—Clodagh hesitated—"oh, since that time in Venice."