The poet would suffer anything rather than have his eloquence interfered with, so he said no more about the fumes of naphtha. When the coffee was brought in, Valdorême dismissed the trim little maid who had waited on them.
"I have some of your favourite cigarettes here. I will get them."
She arose, and, as she went to the table on which the boxes lay, she quietly and deftly locked the door, and, pulling out the key, slipped it into her pocket.
"Do you smoke, mademoiselle?" she asked, speaking to Tenise. She had not recognised her presence before.
"Sometimes, madame," answered the girl, with a titter.
"You will find these cigarettes excellent. My husband's taste in cigarettes is better than in many things. He prefers the Russian to the French."
Caspilier laughed loudly.
"That's a slap at you, Tenise," he said.
"At me? Not so; she speaks of cigarettes, and I myself prefer the
Russian, only they are so expensive."
A look of strange eagerness came into Valdorême's expressive face, softened by a touch of supplication. Her eyes were on her husband, but she said rapidly to the girl——"