With something of the grand manner he held a lighted match to Corinna’s cigarette and to Martin’s. Then he blew it out and lit another for his own.
“A superstition,” said he, by way of apology. “It arises out of the Russian funeral ritual in which the three altar candles are lit by the same taper. To apply the same method of illumination to three worldly things like cigars or cigarettes is regarded as an act of impiety and hence as unlucky. For two people to dip their hands together in the same basin, without making the sign of the cross in the water, is unlucky on account of the central incident of the Last Supper, and to spill the salt as you are absent-mindedly doing, Corinna, is a violation of the sacred symbol of sworn friendship.”
“That’s all very interesting,” said Corinna calmly. “But what are Martin Overshaw and I to do to be happy?”
Fortinbras looked from one to the other with benevolent shrewdness and inhaled a long puff of smoke.
“What about our young medical student friend, Camille Fargot?”
Corinna flushed red—as only pale blondes can flush. “What do you know about Camille?” she demanded.
“Everything—and nothing. Come, come. It’s my business to keep a paternal eye on you children. Where is he?”
“Who the deuce is Camille?” thought Martin.
“He’s at Bordeaux, safe in the arms of his ridiculous mother,” replied Corinna tartly.
“Good, good,” said Fortinbras. “And you, Mr. Overshaw, where is the lady on whom you have set your affections?”