Part 43 (2/2)
All the time her dark, unsmiling eyes remained fixed on him, calmly unresponsive to his badinage.
”I'm sorry I had to be rough with you, Scheherazade,” he continued, ”but when a young lady sews her clothes full of papers which don't belong to her, what, I ask you, is a modest young man to do?”
She said nothing.
”It becomes necessary for that modest young man to can his modesty--and the young lady's. Is there anything else he could do?” he repeated gaily.
”He had better return those papers,” she replied in a low voice.
”I'm sorry, Scheherazade, but it isn't done in ultra-crooked circles.
Are you sure you have enough money to go where destiny and booty call you?”
”I have what I require,” she answered dryly.
”Then good-bye, Pearl of the Harem! Without rancour, I offer you the hand that reluctantly chastened you.”
They remained facing each other in silence for a moment; his expression was mischievously amused; hers inscrutable. Then, as he patiently and good-humouredly continued to offer her his hand, very slowly she laid her own in it, still looking him directly in the eyes.
”I'm sorry,” she said in a low voice.
”For what? For not shooting me?”
”I'm sorry for _you_, Mr. Neeland.... You're only a boy, after all.
You know nothing. And you refuse to learn.... I'm sorry....
Good-bye.”
”Could I take you anywhere? To the Hotel Orange? I've time. The station is across the street.”
”No,” she said.
She walked leisurely along the poorly lighted street and turned the first corner as though at hazard. The next moment her trim and graceful figure had disappeared.
With his heart still gay from the night's excitement, and the drop of Irish blood in him lively as champagne, he crossed the square briskly, entered the stuffy station, bought a ticket, and went out to the wooden platform beside the rails.
Placing box and suitcase side by side, he seated himself upon them and lighted a cigarette.
Here was an adventure! Whether or not he understood it, here certainly was a real, story-book adventure at last. And he began to entertain a little more respect for those writers of romance who have so persistently attempted to convince an incredulous world that adventures are to be had anywhere and at any time for the mere effort entailed in seeking them.
In his case, however, he had not sought adventure. It had been thrust upon him by cable.
And now the drop of Irish in him gratefully responded. He was much obliged to Fate for his evening's entertainment; he modestly ventured to hope for favours to come. And, considering the coolly veiled threats of this young woman whom he had treated with scant ceremony, he had some reason to expect a sequel to the night's adventure.
”She,” he thought to himself, ”had nothing on G.o.diva--except a piano cover!”
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