He helped her to place the filmy lace mantilla, with its red roses, on her head, and in doing so his fingers touched hers. She looked up, thrilled and eager, the colour slowly spreading over her cheeks; and struck by her expression, he returned her gaze with surprise. But they exchanged not a word, and ascended to the garden in silence; and with scarcely a remark he settled her comfortably in a deck-chair. Then he lighted a fresh cigar, and puffed away in contentment, whilst the soft breeze dispersed the smoke and gently caressed their hair.
“I have often wondered what the exact pleasure is that you men find in the weed,” Zillah observed, thinking he had gazed long enough at the deep blue of the sky. “I suppose it soothes you in a way we women cannot understand.”
“I really don’t know.” He held the cigar between his fingers and surveyed it contemplatively. “It’s all habit, I suppose; but I do think a good cigar aids one’s mental digestion. And I know that if I am in a bad temper, a quiet smoke will always pull me round.”
“‘Open confession is good for the soul,’” she quoted, with a smile. “I hope that does not often occur.”
“What—the bad temper?”
“Yes; but I ought not to say anything.” She sighed. “People in glass houses should not throw stones. I am in a bad temper with everybody and everything, most of all with myself.”
She spoke impulsively, and with such force that the young man glanced towards her with wonder.
“Indeed,” he responded courteously. “That sounds rather depressing. May I ask for what reason you have quarrelled with yourself?”
Zillah turned her face away, so that the moonlight caught her classic profile.
“The reason—oh, simply that I am unhappy.”