he sunbonnet, and replied in her own
language:

"Certainly, as many as you want."

He bit into one, but got no further with it. Her back was turned to him,
and he threw the berry out of the window. She felt rather than saw what
he had done. She saw that he was fagged. She instantly thought of
a cordial she had in the house, the gift of a nun from the Ursuline
Convent in Quebec; a precious little bottle which she had kept for the
anniversary of her wedding day. If she had been told in the morning that
she would open that bottle now, and for a stranger, she probably would
have resented the idea with scorn.

His disguised weariness still exciting her sympathy, she offered him a
chair.

"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 the glance of his eye--a look of flattery which was part of his
stock-in-trade. It had got him into trouble all his life.

"Ah, madame, but I plead yes!" he answered, with a little encouraging
nod towards her. "Come, let me pour it for you."

He took the odd little bottle and poured her glass as full as his own.

"If Magon were only here--he'd like some, I know," she said, vaguely
struggling with a sense of impropriety, though