Part 10 (2/2)

At my stare of horror her face fell. At my command to go upstairs and wash herself clean, she wept.

”For heaven's sake, don't cry,” I exclaimed, ”or you will look like a rainbow.”

”I did it to please you,” she sobbed.

”It is only the lowest cla.s.s of dancing-women who paint their faces in England,” said I, _splendide mendax._ ”And you know what they are in Alexandretta.”

”They came to Aziza-Zaza's wedding,” said Carlotta, behind her handkerchief. ”But all our ladies do this when they want to make themselves look nice. And I have put on this nasty thing that hurts me, just to please Seer Marcous.”

I felt I had been brutal. She must have spent hours over her adornment.

Yet I could not have taken her out into the street. She looked like Jezebel, who without her paint must have been, like Carlotta, a remarkably handsome person.

”It strikes me, Carlotta,” said I, ”that you will find England is Alexandretta upside down. What is wrong there is right here, and vice versa. Now if you want to please me run away and clean yourself and take off those barbaric and Brummagem earrings.”

She went and was absent a short while. She returned in dismay. Water would not get it off. I rang for Antoinette, but Antoinette had gone out. It being too delicate a matter for Stenson, I fetched a pot of vaseline from my own room, and as Carlotta did not know what to make of it, I with my own hands cleansed Carlotta. She screamed with delight, thinking it vastly amusing. Her emotions are facile. I cannot deny that it amused me too. But I am in a responsible position, and I am wondering what the deuce I shall be doing next.

I enjoyed the drive to Richmond, where I gave her tea at the Star and Garter and was relieved to see her drink normally from the cup, instead of lapping from the saucer like a kitten. She was much more intelligent than during our first drive on Tuesday. The streets have grown more familiar, and the traffic does not make her head ache. She asks me the ingenuous questions of a child of ten. The tall guardsmen we pa.s.sed particularly aroused her enthusiasm. She had never seen anything so beautiful. I asked her if she would like me to buy one and give it her to play with.

”Oh, would you, Seer Marcous?” she exclaimed, seizing my hand rapturously. I verily believe she thought I was in earnest, for when I turned aside my jest, she pouted in disappointment and declared that it was wrong to tell lies.

”I am glad you have some elementary notions of ethics,” said I. It was during our drive that it occurred to me to ask her where she had procured the paint and earrings. She explained, cheerfully, that Antoinette had supplied the funds. I must talk seriously to Antoinette. Her att.i.tude towards Carlotta savours too much of idolatry.

Demoralisation will soon set in, and the utter ruin of Carlotta and my digestion will be the result. I must also make Carlotta a small allowance.

During tea she said to me, suddenly:

”Seer Marcous is not married?”

I said, no. She asked, why not? The devil seems to be driving all womankind to ask me that question.

”Because wives are an unmitigated nuisance,” said I.

A curious smile came over Carlotta's face. It was as knowing as Dame Quickly's.

”Then-”

”Have one of these cakes,” said I, hurriedly. ”There is chocolate outside and the inside is chock-full of custard.”

She bit, smiled in a different and beatific way, and forgot my matrimonial affairs. I was relieved. With her oriental training there is no telling what Carlotta might have said.

May 31st.

To-day I have had a curious interview. Who should call on me but the father of the hapless Harry Robinson. My first question was a natural one. How on earth did he connect me with the death of his son? How did he contrive to identify me as the befriender of the young Turkish girl whose interests, he declared, were the object of his visit? It appeared that the police had given him the necessary information, my adventures at Waterloo having rendered their tracing of Carlotta an easy matter.

I had been wondering somewhat at the meagre newspaper reports of the inquest. No mention was made, as I had nervously antic.i.p.ated, of the mysterious lady for whom the deceased had bought a ticket at Alexandretta, and with whom he had come ash.o.r.e. Very little evidence appeared to have been taken, and the jury contented themselves with giving the usual verdict of temporary insanity. I touched on this as delicately as I could. ”We succeeded in hus.h.i.+ng things up,” said my visitor, an old man with iron-grey whiskers and a careworn sensitive face. ”I have some influence myself, and his wife's relations--”

”His wife!” I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. The ways of men are further than ever from interpretation. The fellow was actually married!

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