"I think," Arithelli said with deliberation, "that all your friends are
very fatiguing. They have such bad tempers, and do nothing but argue."
"They live for the serious things of life," retorted Emile. "Not to
play the fool."
"Thanks! Is this one of the serious things of life, do you suppose?"
She stuck the large needle with which she had been awkwardly cobbling a
tear in her skirt, into the seat of a chair.
"What are you doing that for?" demanded Emile.
"Oh, pardon, I forgot." She extracted the needle. "I don't think I'm
unwomanly but I'm not a good sewer. Emile! don't you think we might
have some music? I really am beginning to sing '_Le Reve_' quite well."
Her education in Anarchy had commenced with the teaching of
revolutionary songs. Emile, who was himself music-mad, had discovered
her to be possessed of a rough contralto voice of a curious mature
quality. It would have been an absurd voice for ballads in a
drawing-room, but it suited fiery declamations in praise of _La
Liberte_!
They were sitting in Emile's room now, for they made use of each
other's lodgings alternately, and there was a battered and rather
out-of-tune piano.
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