sense was opened up in her, and she felt somehow that the ultra-marine
blue was not right, that the over-mantel had been spoiled, that the new
walnut table was too noticeable, and that the American rocking-chair
looked very common. Also she felt that the plush, with which her mother
and the dressmaker at St. Croix had decorated her bodice, was not the
thing. Presently this made her angry.

"Won't you sit down?" she asked a little maliciously, pointing to the
rocking-chair in the salon.

"I prefer standing--with you," he answered, eyeing the chair with a sly
twinkle.

"No, that isn't it," she rejoined sharply. "You don't like the chair."
Then suddenly breaking into English--"Ah! I know, I know. You can't
fool me. I see de leetla look in your eye; and you not like the paint,
and you'd pitch that painter, Alcide, out into the snow if it is your
house."

"I wouldn't, really," he answered--he coughed a little--"Alcide is doing
his work very well. Couldn't you give me a coat of blue paint, too?"

The piquant, intelligent, fiery peasant face interested him. It had
warmth, natural life and passion.

She flushed and stamped her foot, while he laughed heartily; and she was
about to say something dangerous, when the laugh suddenly stopped and he
began coughing. The paroxysm increased until he strained and caught at
his breast with his hand. It seemed as if his chest and throat must
burst.