“I am never indulgent, excepting to myself. But I have caprices and I generally die when they are not indulged. This is one. Please smoke.”
“Oh, in that case, with Hélène’s permission.”
She laughed delightedly as he blew the rings of fragrant smoke far up to the ceiling. There was another long pause, then she began again:
“Paris, you speak French very well.”
He came from where he had been standing by the table and seated himself once more among the furs at her feet.
“Do I, Hélène?”
“Yes—but you sing it divinely.”
Gethryn began to hum the air of the dream song, smiling, “Yes ’tis a dream—a dream of love,” he repeated, but stopped.
Yvonne’s temples and throat were crimson.
“Please open the window,” she cried, “it’s so warm here.”