meditation, twirling the stem of his glass between thick, unsteady
fingers. The girl next him nudged him disgustedly.

"Oh, wake up! You'll be crying in a minute. Talk of something else."

"Tell us the story of the Duke and the Black Opal, Gyp."

She waved them off.

"No--no--that is not discreet. One must not tell tales. That might
frighten someone 'ere who loves me."

And she looked at Stonehouse, a little malicious and insolently,
childishly sure. He leant towards her, speaking in an undertone,
trying to stare her down.

"Do you mean me, Mademoiselle?"

"And why not, _Monsieur le docteur_? Would it be so strange? You say
you love nobody. But it seems you love ze poor fat Moretti--terribly,
terribly, no doubt, so that you almost break your small 'eart for 'er.
And per'aps someone else too. You say you don't drink--but you are
just a leetle drunk already. You are not different from ze rest. I
tell you that before--and I know. I am a connoisseur. It is
written--'ere in the eyes and in the mouth. It is dangerous, the way
you live. _Quant a moi_--I don't want you, my friend--we two--that
would be an eruption--a disaster--I should be afraid."

She pretended to shudder, and a moment later seemed to forget him
altogether. She pressed her cigarette out on her plate and went over