“Why did you give the chessmen to that silver pheasant?” she asked him abruptly.

“Silver pheasant?”

“Yes.  See how she sweeps—­sweeps—­sweeps so languid, so brilliant, so useless—­bah!  Why did you give them?”

“She admired them.  It was not much to give.”

“You would not have given them to a daughter of the people.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?  Oh, ha! because her hands would be hard, and brown, and coarse, not fit for those ivory puppets; but hers are white like the ivory, and cannot soil it.  She will handle them so gracefully, for five minutes; and then buy a new toy, and let her lapdog break yours!”

“Like enough.”  He said it with his habitual gentle temper, but there was a shadow of pain in the words.  The chessmen had become in some sort like living things to him, through long association; he had parted from them not without regret, though for the moment courtesy and generosity of instinct had overcome it; and he knew that it was but too true how in all likelihood these trifles of his art, that had brought him many a solace and been his companion through many a lonely hour, would be forgotten by the morrow, where he had bestowed them, and at best put aside in a cabinet to lie unnoticed among bronzes or porcelain, or be set on some boudoir table to be idled with in the mimic warfare that would serve to cover some listless flirtation.

Cigarette, quick to sting, but as quick to repent using her sting, saw the regret in him; with the rapid, uncalculating liberality of an utterly unselfish and intensely impulsive nature, she hastened to make amends by saying what was like gall on her tongue in the utterance: 

“Tiens!” she said quickly.  “Perhaps she will value them more than that.  I know nothing of the aristocrats—­not I!  When you were gone, she championed you against the Black Hawk.  She told him that if you had not been a gentleman before you came into the ranks, she had never seen one.  She spoke well, if you had but heard her.”

“She did!”

She saw his glance brighten as it turned on her in a surprised gratification.

“Well!  What is there so wonderful?”

Cigarette asked it with a certain petulance and doggedness; taking a namesake out of her breast-pocket, biting its end off, and striking a fusee.  A word from this aristocrate was more welcome to him than a bullet that had saved his life!

Her generosity had gone very far, and, like most generosity, got nothing for its pains.

He was silent a few moments, tracing lines in the dust with the point of his scabbard.  Cigarette, with the cigar in her mouth, stamped her foot impatiently.

“Corporal Victor!  Are you going to dream there all night?  What is to be done with this dog of an Arab?”