“I never refuse a good cigar. These harmless joys are excellent for man. They help his Christianity. They keep him from bitterness, harsh judgments. But harshness is for northern climes—rainy England, eh? Forgive me, Madame. I speak in joke. You come from England perhaps. It didn’t occur to me that—”
They both laughed. His garrulity was irresistible and made Domini feel as if she were sitting with a child. Perhaps he caught her feeling, for he added:
“The desert has made me an enfant terrible, I fear. What have you there?”
His eyes had been attracted by the flask of liqueur, to which Domini was stretching out her hand with the intention of giving him some.
“I don’t know.”
She leaned forward to read the name on the flask.
“L o u a r i n e,” she said.
“Pst!” exclaimed the priest, with a start.
“Will you have some? I don’t know whether it’s good. I’ve never tasted it, or seen it before. Will you have some?”
She felt so absolutely certain that he would say “Yes” that she lifted the flask to pour the liqueur into one of the little glasses, but, looking at him, she saw that he hesitated.