"Now, dis Celeste——" she began, but the French girl, just then entering, came with an air that was a sufficient explanation of her never complex temperament.
"Voilà!" she smiled, holding aloft a long glass filled by a dull green liquid. "Let the leetle girl tak some of thees wheech I meex for her."
Before she had well realized what she was doing, Mary had accepted the glass.
"What is it?" she asked weakly.
"Absinthe," replied Celeste.
"It smells like licorice," said Mary.
"Ah, but no; eet ees not that. You try thees, an' then you can eat."
"But I don't think I want to eat."
"Poof! That ees folly! See, now, I meex thees myself—I myself have frappé eet. Ees eet what you call polite that you say 'no' to me? Say, now: ees eet?"
Involuntarily Mary smiled. It was a rueful little smile, but it was a smile of exhausted consent.