many things. She stroked the dark head that
rested against her knee, wondering how it was that she had never before
noticed till to-day how feverishly brilliant Vardri's eyes were, and
how his skin burnt. She had often heard him coughing before, but he
had always gone away and left her when an attack came on, with some
laughing excuse about the horrible noise he made. After a while he
shifted his position, and smiled up at her.

"You're getting tired, Fatalite!"

"No. Tell me, have you anything important to do to-night?"

"No, dear, and if I had I shouldn't do it. Do you feel well enough to
come out and have dinner with me somewhere? I'll take you to some
place where it's quiet."

"Why not let us stay here all the evening, and have supper together?"
Arithelli suggested. "We'll take Emile's things. He loves cooking
_cochonneries_, and there is sure to be a _quelque chose_ somewhere in
the cupboard."

Vardri scrambled to his feet. "_Bon_! Sit still, and I'll go and
_acheter les_--things! We'll leave Emile's _cochonneries_ alone. I'm
rich now, so we will have luxuries."

"Yes, and I'll hunt for plates and dishes, and wash them properly (not
like the Gentiles do) while you go and _acheter les_--things!"
Arithelli mocked. "What a dreadful mixture of languages we all use! I
used to speak German quite well when I was at the convent, but now I
have forgotten nearly all of it. This place is bad for both one's
French and English, and Emile says that when I try and speak Spanish it
sounds like someone sawing wood."

Vardri went out still coughing, and came back flushed and excitable,
laden with various untidy parcels, from which some of the contents were
protruding. Long rolls, the materials for a salad, a _pate_, flowers,
and an enormous cluster of grapes. They pledged each other in the
yellow wine of the country, and presently Vardri set about the
manufacture of what he inaccurately described as Turkish coffee. That
the result of his efforts was half cold and evil-tasting mattered not
to either of them.

Arithelli's red hair was crowned with vine leaves that he had stripped
from the grape-cluster and twisted into a Bacchante wreath. She leant
her elbow on the table, resting her chin upon her hand. Her eyes
glowed jewel-like, almost the same colour as her garland. The flame of
love had melted into warmth her statue-like coldness, and given her the
one thing she had lacked--expression. Yet the mys