Between Friends

"Won't you please take this sandwich?"

Her outstretched arm more than what she said arrested his drifting

attention again.

"Why the devil do you want me to eat?" he inquired, fishing out his

empty pipe and filling it.

"You smoke too much. It's bad for you. It will do very queer

things to the lining of your stomach if you smoke your luncheon

instead of eating it."

He yawned.

"Is that so?" he said.

"Certainly it's so. Please take this sandwich."

He stood looking at the outstretched arm, thinking of other things

and the girl sprang to her feet, caught his hand, opened the

fingers, placed the sandwich on the palm, then, with a short laugh

as though slightly disconcerted by her own audacity, she snatched

the pipe from his left hand and tossed it upon the table. When she

had reseated herself on the lounge beside her pasteboard box of

luncheon, she became even more uncertain concerning the result of

what she had done, and began to view with rising alarm the steady

gray eyes that were so silently inspecting her.

But after a moment Drene walked over to the sofa, seated himself,

curiously scrutinized the sandwich which lay across the palm of his

hand, then gravely tasted it.

"This will doubtless give me indigestion," he remarked. "Why,

Cecile, do you squander your wages on nourishment for me?"

"It cost only five cents."

"But why present five cents to me?" "I gave ten to a beggar this

morning."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Was he grateful?"

"He seemed to be."

"This sandwich is excellent; but if I feel the worse for it, I'll

not be very grateful to you." But he continued eating.

"'The woman tempted me,'" she quoted, glancing at him sideways.

After a moment's survey of her: "You're one of those bright, saucy, pretty, inexplicable things that

throng this town and occasionally flit through this

profession--aren't you?"

"Am I?"

"Yes. Nobody looks for anything except mediocrity; you're one of

the surprises. Nobody expects you; nobody can account for you, but

you appear now and then, here and there, anywhere, even

everywhere--a pretty sparkle against the gray monotony of life, a

momentary flash like a golden moat afloat in sunshine--and what

then?"

She laughed.

"What then? What becomes of you? Where do you go? What do you

turn into?"

"I don't know."

"You go somewhere, don't you? You change into something, don't you?

What happens to you, petite Cigale?"