Page:Burton Stevenson--The marathon mystery.djvu/112

90 “So was I,” I said, smiling at the quaint expression. “I was growing very sick of my own body. Have you been in New York long?”

“Less than a month, missié; and I do not like it—it is too cold—too grey.”

“Ah, you have come in a bad time,” I said, wondering at her almost childish expression of misery. “Wait until June—then you will see!”

“June! Ah, we shall not remain so long—I, at least! I have promised to stay one month longer, but more than that—impossible!”

She reached out and took up a cigarette from a pile which lay on a tabouret beside the couch.

“It was thus the curtains caught,” she laughed, and, after a whiff or two, flung the still-blazing taper over her shoulder. “Pouf!—and they were all in flame. A moment before, I was longing for excitement-any excitement whatever—but that sudden burst of fire frightened me—I rushed out—cried for help—and,” she finished with a charming little gesture, “spoiled your smoke. Try one of these.”

There was no resisting her—it was like playing with fire. I took a cigarette and lighted it.

“At Fond-Corré there was much to do,” she continued, with a little sigh. “Here there is nothing but to smoke, smoke!”

“Fond-Corré?” I queried.

“Just beyond St. Pierre,” she explained, closing her eyes with delight at the memory. “There was our home—I can see it again, in its grove of cocoa trees running down to the grey sand, with the waves lap-