The
rest of the apartment she had altered to look as much like a sitting
room as possible, with the exception of the obtrusive four-poster,
which could not be hidden and which upon entering appeared the most
salient feature visible. There was some tawdry jewellery lying about,
and several pairs of the pale-hued Parisian boots she invariably
affected. Emile made and lighted the inevitable cigarette, while he
fidgeted about, turning over the few French and English novels he could
find with an air of disapproval; for her taste in literature did not
commend itself to him any more than did her taste in finery.
At one period of his life he had steeped himself in books, knowing the
poetry and romance of nearly every nation. Now he disliked them. If
she wanted books he would choose them for her. She would read the
love-songs of the revolutionists to their goddess Liberty, the haunting
words of those who had suffered for a time, and escaped the Siberian
Ice-Hell. The fanaticism of his race and temperament flamed into his
cold eyes as he sat and brooded, and he hardly noticed that Arithelli
had slid into the room in her noiseless fashion, and was standing
before him.
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