“Over 100, 000 books, do you suppose? They wouldn’t have half a million, would they?” He did not wait for an answer, he was talking to himself. “No, of course not. How many books can you take out at a time? What?”
The great shadow of his hunger bent over her; he rushed out of himself, devouring her with his questions.
“What are the girls like? Are they blonde or brunette? What?”
“Why, we have both kinds—more dark than fair, I should say.” She looked through the darkness at him, grinning.
“Are they pretty?”
“Well! I can’t say. You’ll have to draw your own conclusions, Eugene. I’m one of them, you know.” She looked at him with demure lewdness, offering herself for inspection. Then, with a laugh of teasing reproof, she said: “I believe you’re a bad boy, Eugene. I believe you’re a bad boy.”
He lighted another cigarette feverishly.
“I’d give anything for a smoke,” muttered “Miss Brown.” “I don’t suppose I could here?” She looked round her.
“Why not?” he said impatiently. “There’s no one to see you. It’s dark. What does it matter anyway?”
Little electric currents of excitement played up his spine.
“I believe I will,” she whispered. “Have you got a cigarette?”
He gave her his package; she stood up to receive the flame he nursed in his cupped hands. She leaned her heavy body against him as, with puckered face and closed eyes, she held her cigarette to the fire. She grasped his shaking hands to steady the light, holding them for a moment after.
“What,” said “Miss Brown,” with a cunning smile, “what if your mother should see us? You’d catch it!”
“She’ll not see us,” he said. “Besides,” he added generously, “why shouldn’t women smoke the same as men? There’s no harm in it.”
“Yes,” said “Miss Brown,” “I believe in being broad-minded about these things, too.”
But he grinned in the dark, because the woman had revealed herself with a cigarette. It was a sign—the sign of the province, the sign unmistakable of debauchery.
