evening over a book. Your company is very welcome.”
“That is good of you to say. I shall speak frankly, then, as I had intended doing.”
He paused and puffed at his cigarette. I saw that, in spite of his superb assurance, the subject, whatever it was, presented a certain difficulty.
“I have been curious to see,” he began, at last, “how Cecily would affect New Yorkers. She is certainly well stared at.”
“And no wonder!” I said. “She would make St. Anthony turn his head.”
“You really weren’t bored last night?”
“I don’t see how anybody could be bored with Cecily,” I answered with conviction.
“Ah, you think so?” and he shot me a quick glance. “You admire her, then?”
“Admiration is hardly the word,” I said slowly. “It is too weak, too thin”
Evidently he misunderstood me, for he did not wait for me to finish—to explain myself.
“That makes it easier for me,” he interrupted. “You have perhaps suspected that the union between us is not a—ah—a legal one?”
“Yes,” I said, “I had suspected that.”
“Such unions are the rule in Martinique,” he continued calmly, “and have been from time immemorial. They are a part of the life there-they are a matter of course-and frequently they are as permanent and happy as any regular one could be. Cecily is what is known as a fille-de-couleur; physically, I believe, the most beautiful women in the world.”
