Part 45 (2/2)
Gruyere had termed his ”deformity.” But the girl either could not, or would not, taste the salty flavour of his compliment. She made a curious answer.
”I do not profess to be Irish.”
For some reason Carson took this for a fresh affront, and it was more than he could put up with. All his easily-lighted fires were ablaze now, and the reflection of them could be seen in his eyes. He gave her one fierce look, then turned away without a word. Abinger stood grinning.
But the lilac eyes filled with tears, and the scarlet mouth went down at the corners like a child's.
”Oh, you mustn't mind Carson,” said Abinger easily. ”You see, he has unfortunately got a real Irish monkey for sale.”
”An Irish monkey?”
”Yes. Have you never heard of the species? Carson's is quite famous. It used to be a source of revenue to the Transvaal and Rhodesia for years--they thought nothing of giving him fifty pounds for letting it out on the spree.”
Her tears had slipped back unused to whence they came; she was now dry-eyed and rather haughty.
”How could I know?” she began stiffly.
Abinger apparently thought it not wholly out of place to deliver her a short lecture on the undesirability of hurting people's feelings, together with the information that Carson, though hot-tempered and rather mad, was one of the finest gentlemen in the world and happened to share the misfortune of his nationality with a few of the most charming people in South Africa, not excluding their pleasant hostess--Mrs.
Portal.
By the time he had finished his remarks Miss Chard had regained her tranquillity.
”Thank you,” said she sweetly. ”I think it very nice and friendly of you to tell me all these things. I suppose you are an Irishman, too?”
Some emotion kept Abinger dumb for several seconds; then under her tranquil gaze he recovered himself.
”No, I am a cosmopolitan; incidentally of Scotch birth.”
”Indeed!” Miss Chard looked politely interested. ”You flatter yourself chiefly on the first, I suppose?”
”I did, until to-day.”
”To-day?”
”Yes. A cosmopolitan's chief pride, you see, is in the fact that he can conceal his nationality, whilst able to detect instantly that of the person he is speaking to. Now I should never have guessed that _you_ are--English.”
Her colour remained unchanged: her eyes regarded him steadfastly.
”You took me for some new kind of barbarian, perhaps?”
He moved a hand deprecatingly: ”Not at all; but if I had been asked for an expression of opinion, I should have said, 'A little Irish vagabond dragged up in Africa.'”
The girl's sweet laugh fell from her lips.
”What a ridiculous thing to say! You evidently have not heard that I have only been in Africa for a few weeks or so--my _first_ visit.”
Then, as though the conversation had ceased to interest her, she turned away and began to talk to Portal--who introduced to her a man with a satanic expression on a woman's mouth as Dr. Ferrand. The doctor immediately began to talk to her about ”home!”
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