title fitted him.

He looked up from his work, and, gathering the materials together,
brought them over to the divan. "Light me a cigarette, _cherie_,
my hands are busy," he replied irrelevantly.

She complied with a little laugh. "You haven't answered my question."

He polished the gleaming little weapon in his hand for some time
without speaking. "_Ma petite_ Diane, your lips are of an adorable
redness and your voice is music in my ears, but--I detest questions.
They bore me to a point of exasperation," he said at last lightly, and
started humming the Kashmiri song again.

She knew him well enough to know that all questions did not bore him,
but that she must have touched some point connected with the past of
which she was ignorant that affected him, and to prove her knowledge
she asked another question. "Why do you sing? You have never sung
before."

He looked at her with a smile of amusement at her pertinacity.
"Inquisitive one! I sing because I am glad. Because my friend is
coming."

"Your friend?"

"Yes, by Allah! The best friend a man ever had. Raoul de Saint Hubert."

She flashed a look at the bookcase with a jerk of her head, and he
nodded. "Coming here?" she queried, and the dismay she felt sounded in