He prefers animals now. They
don't tell tales. Human beings do. Besides, he's English, or rather,
Irish. Better go and tell him to come up. You know his rooms. Tell
him it's infectious, and he can bring up a few cigarettes for me if he
feels generous. Don't trouble about your _Soeur de Charite_. I'll see
that the woman here makes herself useful."
Vardri flung himself out of the room and down the rickety stairs at
breakneck speed, thankful beyond measure for the relief of action.
Emile subsided into a chair and smoked furiously and meditated upon the
untoward situation. Being of a practical turn of mind he began to make
calculations. Vardri had told him briefly of how Arithelli had failed
in the trick-riding, fallen off her horse, and been hissed out of the
ring. The loss of popularity might mean the end of her career. In any
case he could see she was desperately ill, and there was small chance
of her being about under three weeks, and even then she would not be
able to work at once. Meanwhile they had exactly two pounds a week to
live upon.
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