It don't matter any
more."
"No. You're doing yourself harm. You ought to sleep."
"I don't want to--I can't. It is 'orrible to lie awake in ze dark
and---- And you, too, Monsieur Robert, you don't feel you sleep much
to-night, _hein_?"
"No."
"_Alors_--'ere we are--two poor fellows shipwrecked--we make a leetle
feast together--a feast of good stories. You say you don't like me
ver' much. But that is _ridicule_ now. One only 'ates when one is
afraid, and you aren't afraid any more of poor Gyp."
"Was I ever?" he demanded.
"A leetle--per'aps? You think to yourself: 'If I love 'er----!'
Bah, that is all finished. Come, I tell you my funny story."
He had laughed. He was incredulous of himself. He sat on the edge of
her bed listening to her whisper, a tortured whisper which she made
supremely funny--a mock-conspirator's whisper which drew them close to
one another in an outrageous intimacy.
"At any rate you had made a good enemy that time," he said.
She panted.
"Ah no--no. 'E 'ave a fine sense of humour, Monsieur ze Grand Duke.
'E laugh too. 'E say--'Gyp--you are ze ver' devil 'erself!' 'Ere, but
this ruby--I don't care much for rubies--but this one 'ave a real fine
story."
And so one by one the stones were taken up and held a moment, some to
be discarded with a name or a forgetful shrug, and some to linger a
while longer whilst she recalled their little ribald histories. And it
seemed to Robert Stonehouse that gradually the room filled with
invisible personages who, as the jewels dropped from her waxen fingers
into the gaping box, bowed to her and took their leave.
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