"Yesterday while I was there she was holding a little cut glass
vinaigrette. It had a big D engraved on the silver top. She said that it
was the only thing that she had left except her wedding ring, and that
it was to be Sister Denisa's when she was gone. The D stands for both
their names. Hers is Desire. She said the vinaigrette was too precious
to part with as long as she lives, because her oldest brother gave it
to her on her twelfth birthday, when she was exactly as old as I am.
Isn't Desire a pretty name?"
"Mademoiselle," called Monsieur Ciseaux from the next room,
"mademoiselle, will you come--will you tell me--what name was that?
Desire, did you say?"
There was something so strange in the way he called that name Desire,
almost like a cry, that Joyce sprang up, startled, and ran into the next
room. She had never ventured inside before.
"Tell me again what you were telling Jules," said the old man.
"Seventy-three years, did you say? And how long has she been back
in France?"
Joyce began to answer his rapid questions, but stopped with a frightened
cry as her glance fell on a large portrait hanging over the mantel.
"There she is!" she cried, excitedly dancing up and down as she pointed
to the portrait. "There she is! That's Number Thirty-one, her very
own self."
"You are mistaken!" cried the old man, attempting to rise from his
chair, but trembling so that he could scarcely pull himself up on his
feet.
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