He found her alone in
her dressing room. She had just emerged from the bath, had nothing
on save a great red-and-white flannel bathing wrap and was very busy
examining her presents, which were ranged on a table. She had already
broken a rock-crystal flask in her attempts to unstopper it.
"Oh, you're too nice!" she said. "What is it? Let's have a peep! What a
baby you are to spend your pennies in little fakements like that!"
She scolded him, seeing that he was not rich, but at heart she was
delighted to see him spending his whole substance for her. Indeed, this
was the only proof of love which had power to touch her. Meanwhile she
was fiddling away at the comfit dish, opening it and shutting it in her
desire to see how it was made.
"Take care," he murmured, "it's brittle."
But she shrugged her shoulders. Did he think her as clumsy as a street
porter? And all of a sudden the hinge came off between her fingers and
the lid fell and was broken. She was stupefied and remained gazing at
the fragments as she cried:
"Oh, it's smashed!"
Then she burst out laughing. The fragments lying on the floor tickled
her fancy. Her merriment was of the nervous kind, the stupid, spiteful
laughter of a child who delights in destruction.
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