But he sat down and began rolling a fresh cigarette. The flat
silver box in which he carried his tobacco lay on the table beside him,
and she idly took it up. "Rose-Marie a Victor," she saw engraved on it.
"What a pretty name! The box is old, isn't it?"
"Yes. Or pretends to be. I have had it for years."
"And--she? Rose-Marie?"
"I don't know. It was twenty years ago--in Paris."
Felicite's story recurred to Brigit, the "bad time" in Paris; "how he
loved them all for the time."
He was smoking fitfully, and frowning to himself. She was again
forgotten. It was very warm, and the curtains swayed in irregular puffs
of wind; then came a rumble of thunder. Joyselle started nervously.
"_Un orage_," he said; "I--I hate thunder."
"Do you? I like it." Together they went to the window and looked up at
the threatening sky. A whirl of dust met them, and they drew quickly
back, his sleeve brushing against her shoulders. "It will be bad," he
said, broodingly.
"Yes."
She felt breathless and welcomed the coming storm as suiting her mood.
"I--you asked me what is the matter," Joyselle began, speaking very
quickly. "I will tell you. It is this. There is in me a god, and I
refuse to give him speech.
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