"You will sit down, m'sieu'?" she asked. "It is very warm."

She did not say: "You look very tired." She instinctively felt that it
would suggest the delicate state of his health.

The chair was inviting enough, with its chintz cover and wicker seat, but
he would never admit fatigue. He threw his leg half jauntily over the
end of the table and said:

"No--no, thanks; I'd rather not sit."

His forehead was dripping with perspiration. He took out his
handkerchief and dried it. His eyes were a little heavy, but his
complexion was a delicate and unnatural pink and white-like a piece of
fine porcelain. It was a face without care, without vice, without fear,
and without morals. For the absence of vice with the absence of morals
are not incongruous in a human face. Sophie went into another room for a
moment, and brought back a quaint cut-glass bottle of cordial.

"It is very good," she said, as she took the cork out; "better than peach
brandy or things like that."

He watched her pour it out into a wine-glass, and as soon as he saw the
colour and the flow of it he was certain of its quality.

"That looks like good stuff," he said, as she handed him a glass brimming
over; "but you must have one with me. I can't drink alone, you know."

"Oh, m'sieu', if you please, no," she answered half timidly, flattered by