Storri, encouraged in his soul by the return of his San Reve to reason, solaced himself with a fresh cigar.

The two smoked in silent truce.
"It was a love quarrel, my San Reve!" said Storri.
"Only a love quarrel!" assented San Reve.
Silence and smoke; with Storri timid, shrinking from fresh offense and further outbreak.
Storri, fearing all who had no fear of him, feared the San Reve.

Nor were his apprehensions void of warrant; the San Reve was of that hot and blinded strain which loves and slays.
"Your father dead," said Storri, pretending a perking interest, "your father dead, my San Reve, what then became of you ?" "I fell into the hands of a doting old architect of Paris.

He was good to me; it was with him I learned my trade.

No, I did not love him; but I was grateful.