"Mon ami, I am so glad you have come."
"Is this the first time you have been out? Who said you could get up?
The doctor?"
"No, it was Emile."
Vardri nodded towards the communicating door of the bedroom. "Poleski is here then?"
"No, and he doesn't know I'm here. He has gone to Sária and will not be back till late. I was horribly irritable this morning, so he thinks I'm all right now." A ripple of amusement broke her voice as their eyes met.
"My sweet, you must ask me to believe some other little histoire."
"Oh! but it's true. You should have heard us! I knew that it was funny afterwards, but there was no one to laugh with at the time. It was about that dreadful old coat of Emile's. He threw it on my bed, and—I can't help being a Jewess, can I? and I so loathe dust and dirt, and I said so. Emile was furious. 'Very well,' he said. 'If you are strong enough to grumble, you are strong enough to get up.' So when he had gone I dressed and came here. I was so glad to get away from that room."
"Not as glad as I am to see you here. And I've heard you laugh,
Fatalité. You're a little girl today."
"I have moods, dear. I shall depress you sometimes."
Vardri smiled scornfully, and slid down to the floor, his head resting against her knee. "Je suis bien content! What cool hands you have, and how still you keep. No other woman in the world was ever so restful. You love to be quiet, don't you? I know you better to-day than I ever did. You were always in the wrong atmosphere at the Hippodrome."