Suddenly she sat up.
"Don George," she said with lovely animation, "I insist upon
knowing who is in my house."
"You insist! . . . But Therese says it is HER house."
Had there been anything handy, such as a cigarette box, for
instance, it would have gone sailing through the air spouting
cigarettes as it went. Rosy all over, cheeks, neck, shoulders, she
seemed lighted up softly from inside like a beautiful transparency.
But she didn't raise her voice.
"You and Therese have sworn my ruin. If you don't tell me what you
mean I will go outside and shout up the stairs to make her come
down. I know there is no one but the three of us in the house."
"Yes, three; but not counting my Jacobin. There is a Jacobin in
the house."
"A Jac . . .! Oh, George, is this the time to jest?" she began in
persuasive tones when a faint but peculiar noise stilled her lips
as though they had been suddenly frozen. She became quiet all over
instantly. I, on the contrary, made an involuntary movement before
I, too, became as still as death. We strained our ears; but that
peculiar metallic rattle had been so slight and the silence now was
so perfect that it was very difficult to believe one's senses.
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