Why dont you ever eat luncheon? she asked.
Why should I? he replied, preoccupied.
Its bad for you not to. Besides, you are growing thin.
Is that your final conclusion concerning me, Cecile? he asked, absently.
Wont you please take this sandwich?
Her outstretched arm more than what she said arrested his drifting attention again.
Why the devil do you want me to eat? he inquired, fishing out his empty pipe and filling it.
You smoke too much. Its bad for you. It will do very queer things to the lining of your stomach if you smoke your luncheon instead of eating it.
He yawned.
Is that so? he said.
Certainly its so. Please take this sandwich.
He stood looking at the outstretched arm, thinking of other things and the girl sprang to her feet, caught his hand, opened the fingers, placed the sandwich on the palm, then, with a short laugh as though slightly disconcerted by her own audacity, she snatched the pipe from his left hand and tossed it upon the table. When she had reseated herself on the lounge beside her pasteboard box of luncheon, she became even more uncertain concerning the result of what she had done, and began to view with rising alarm the steady gray eyes that were so silently inspecting her.
But after a moment Drene walked over to the sofa, seated himself, curiously scrutinized the sandwich which lay across the palm of his hand, then gravely tasted it.
This will doubtless give me indigestion, he remarked. Why, Cecile, do you squander your wages on nourishment for me?
It cost only five cents.
But why present five cents to me? I gave ten to a beggar this morning.
Why?
I dont know.
Was he grateful?
He seemed to be.
This sandwich is excellent; but if I feel the worse for it, Ill not be very grateful to you. But he continued eating.
The woman tempted me, she quoted, glancing at him sideways.
After a moments survey of her:
Youre one of those bright, saucy, pretty, inexplicable things that throng this town and occasionally flit through this professionarent you?
Am I?
Yes. Nobody looks for anything except mediocrity; youre one of the surprises. Nobody expects you; nobody can account for you, but you appear now and then, here and there, anywhere, even everywherea pretty sparkle against the gray monotony of life, a momentary flash like a golden moat afloat in sunshineand what then?
She laughed.
What then? What becomes of you? Where do you go? What do you turn into?
I dont know.
You go somewhere, dont you? You change into something, dont you? What happens to you, petite Cigale?
When?
When the sunshine is turned off and the snow comes.
I dont know, Mr. Drene. She broke her chocolate cake into halves and laid one on his knee.
Thanks for further temptation, he said grimly.
You are welcome. Its good, isnt it?
Excellent. Adam liked the apple, too. But it raised hell with him.
She laughed, shot a direct glance at him, and began to nibble her cake, with her eyes still fixed on him.
Once or twice he encountered her gaze but his own always wandered absently elsewhere.
You think a great deal, dont you? she remarked.
Dont you?
I try not totoo much.
What? he asked, swallowing the last morsel of cake.
She shrugged her shoulders:
Whats the advantage of thinking?
He considered her reply for a moment, her blue and rather childish eyes, and the very pure oval of her face. Then his attention flagged as usualwas wanderingwhen she sighed, very lightly, so that he scarcely heard itmerely noticed it sufficiently to conclude that, as usual, there was the inevitable hard luck story afloat in her vicinity, and that he lacked the interest to listen to it.
Thinking, she said, is a luxury to a tranquil mind and a punishment to a troubled one. So I try not to.
It was a moment or two before it occurred to him that the girl had uttered an unconscious epigram.
It sounded like somebodyprobably Montaigne. Was it? he inquired.
I dont know what you mean.
Oh. Then it wasnt. Youre a funny little girl, arent you?
Yes, rather.
On purpose?
Yes, sometimes.
He looked into her very clear eyes, now brightly blue with intelligent perception of his not too civil badinage.
And sometimes, he went on, youre funny when you dont intend to be.
You are, too, Mr. Drene.
What?
Didnt you know it?
A dull color tinted his cheek bones.
No, he said, I didnt know it.
But you are. For instance, you dont walk; you stalk. You do what novelists make their gloomy heroes doyou stride. Its rather funny.
Really. And do you find my movements comic?
She was a trifle scared, now, but she laughed her breathless, youthful laugh:
You are really very dramatica perfect story-book man. But, you know, sometimes they are funny when the author doesnt intend them to be.... Please dont be angry.
Why the impudence of a model should have irritated him he was at a loss to understandunless there lurked under that impudence a trace of unflattering truth.
As he sat looking at her, all at once, and in an unexpected flash of self-illumination, he realized that habit had made of him an actor; that for a whilea long whilea space of time he could not at the moment conveniently computehe had been playing a role merely because he had become accustomed to it.
Disaster had cast him for a part. For a long while he had been that part. Now he was still playing it from sheer force of habit. His tragedy had really become only the shadow of a memory. Already he had emerged from that shadow into the everyday outer world. But he had forgotten that he still wore a somber makeup and costume which in the sunshine might appear grotesque. No wonder the world thought him funny.
Glancing up from a perplexed and chagrined meditation he caught her eyeand found it penitent, troubled, and anxious.
Youre quite right, he said, smiling easily and naturally; I am unintentionally funny. And I really didnt know itdidnt suspect ituntil this moment.
Oh, she said quickly. I didnt meanI know you are often unhappy
Nonsense!
You are! Anybody can seeand you really do not seem to be very old, eitherwhen you smile
Im not very old, he said, amused. Im not unhappy, either. If I ever was, the truth is that Ive almost forgotten by this time what it was all about
A woman, she quoted, between friendsand checked herself, frightened that she had dared interpret Quairs malice.
He changed countenance at that; the dull red of anger clouded his visage.
Oh, she faltered, I was not saucy, only sorry.... I have been sorry for you so long
Who intimated to you that a woman ever played any part in my career?
Its generally supposed. I dont know anything more than that. But Ive beensorry. Love is a very dreadful thing, she said under her breath.
Is it? he asked, controlling a sudden desire to laugh.
Dont you think so?
I have not thought of it that way, recently.... I havent thought about it at allfor some years.... Have you? he added, trying to speak gravely.