“I——” She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes veiled by their long lashes. “Please give me a cigarette,” she pleaded. “William didn’t want me to frighten your mother. I’m—I’m dying to smoke!”
Daniel stared, not so much at the request as at the sudden change. It was as if she had dropped a mantle and revealed her true self. The tragedy and pathos which, a moment before, had made her so appealing, so childlike, vanished. She sat on the arm of the chair, a daring little figure, one hand stretched out, the other holding the match ready to strike. Her face, too, sharpened, and seemed to have lost its soft beauty.
There was something keen and reckless about it, and the darkened lashes and reddened lips gave it a bizarre effect, almost like a mask.
“Please—a cigarette!” she pleaded.
Daniel thrust his hand into his pocket, produced his cigarette-case, and held it out.
“Better smoke when mother isn’t on hand,” he counseled her. “She’s old-fashioned, you know.”
Fanchon drew a long breath of content, lit the cigarette, and began to smoke. She smoked, daintily, her eyes changing and the long-fringed lashes shading them. Gradually, visibly, she relaxed, the sharpness softened, the eyes grew languorous.
“What heaven!” she said after a moment. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it, when you’ve always smoked, and you can’t get it? I—I think I should have stolen it soon!”
“I see!” Daniel laughed softly. “You should always smoke, Fanchon. Without it you’re a prey to sadness, to memories, to imagination. With a cigarette you’re happy!”
“Mais non, I’m not happy!” She lifted her lashes and gave him a fleeting glance. “But it soothes me. I’m not happy, because”—she rose and stood looking at him, the cigarette in her fingers—“because I know you all wanted William to marry her!”