Under the Andes. Rex Stout

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СКАЧАТЬ and I continued:

      "What would you say to a yacht—a hundred and twenty foot steamer, with a daredevil captain and the coziest little cabins in the world?"

      "Bah!" Le Mire snapped her fingers to emphasize her incredulity. "It does not exist."

      "But it does. Afloat and in commission, to be had for the asking and the necessary check. Dazzling white, in perfect order, a second Antoine for a chef, rooms furnished as you would your own villa. What do you say?"

      "Really?" asked Le Mire with sparkling eyes.

      "Really."

      "Here—in San Francisco?"

      "In the harbor. I saw her myself this morning."

      "Then I say—allons! Ah, my friend, you are perfection! I want to see it. Now! May I? Come!"

      I laughed at her eager enthusiasm as she sprang up from her chair.

      "Le Mire, you are positively a baby. Something new to play with! Well, you shall have it. But you haven't had breakfast. We'll go out to see her this afternoon; in fact, I have already made an appointment with the owner."

      "Ah! Indeed, you are perfection. And—how well you know me." She paused and seemed to be searching for words; then she said abruptly: "M. Lamar, I wish you to do me a favor."

      "Anything, Le Mire, in or out of reason."

      Again she hesitated; then:

      "Do not call me Le Mire."

      I laughed.

      "But certainly, Senora Ramal. And what is the favor?"

      "That."

      "That—"

      "Do not call me Le Mire—nor Senora Ramal."

      "Well, but I must address you occasionally."

      "Call me Desiree."

      I looked at her with a smile.

      "But I thought that that was reserved for your particular friends."

      "So it is."

      "Then, my dear senora, it would be impertinent of me."

      "But if I request it?"

      "I have said—anything in or out of reason. And, of course, I am one of the family."

      "Is that the only reason?"

      I began to understand her, and I answered her somewhat dryly: "My dear Desiree, there can be none other."

      "Are you so—cold?"

      "When I choose."

      "Ah!" It was a sigh rather than an exclamation. "And yet, on the ship—do you remember? Look at me, M. Lamar. Am I not—am I so little worthy of a thought?"

      Her lips were parted with tremulous feeling; her eyes glowed with a strange fire, and yet were tender. Indeed, she was "worthy of a thought"—dangerously so; I felt my pulse stir. It was necessary to assume a stoicism I was far from feeling, and I looked at her with a cynical smile and spoke in a voice as carefully deliberate as I could make it.

      "Le Mire," I said, "I could love you, but I won't." And I turned and left her without another word.

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