“What ruins most men, I imagine—folly.”
“Folly, sure enough!” retorted Cigarette, with scornful acquiescence. She had no patience with him. He danced so deliciously, he looked so superb, and he would give her nothing but these absent answers. “Wisdom don't bring men who look as you look into the ranks of the volunteers for Africa. Besides, you are too handsome to be a sage!”
He laughed a little.
“I never was one, that's certain. And you are too pretty to be a cynic.”
“A what?” She did not know the word. “Is that a good cigar you have? Give me one. Do women smoke in your old country?”
“Oh, yes—many of them.”
“Where is it, then?”
“I have no country—now.”
“But the one you had?”
“I have forgotten I ever had one.”