"Sit down! Your hat is on crooked--as usual! Are you so little of a
woman that you never use a mirror?"
A gleam of fun lit up her eyes.
"You covered mine up the other night with that horrible wreath and
streamers. I can only see myself in little bits now."
"Well, sit down and I'll talk to you presently."
Emile returned to the sorting and destruction of his correspondence,
and Arithelli lay back in her chair with a sigh of content, and closed
her eyes. When she opened them again he was standing beside her with a
glass of red wine in his hand.
"Drink this," he said, giving it to her.
"It isn't _absinthe_, is it?" she asked. "I can't see in this light,
and I don't want--"
"It doesn't matter what it is or what you want. Don't argue, but
finish it. How fond you women are of talking!" He waited till she had
obeyed him.
"You see that music? Well, you can take it back with you. I shall not
have any more use for music when I leave here. And listen to me now,
and don't go to sleep for the next five minutes if you can help it.
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