She clasped both hands round his arm and pressed
it firmly, as she might have pressed that of a person
undergoing a surgical operation. When the
song broke off and a chorus of laughter and applause
came from the garden, he looked up with
the eyes of a tortured animal.
"Yes, it is Zita," he said slowly; "with her
officer friends. She tried to come in here the
other night, before Riccardo came. I should have
gone mad if she had touched me!"
"But she does not know," Gemma protested
softly. "She cannot guess that she is hurting
you."
"She is like a Creole," he answered, shuddering.
"Do you remember her face that night when we
brought in the beggar-child? That is how the
half-castes look when they laugh."
Another burst of laughter came from the garden.
Gemma rose and opened the window. Zita, with
a gold-embroidered scarf wound coquettishly
round her head, was standing in the garden path,
holding up a bunch of violets, for the possession
of which three young cavalry officers appeared
to be competing.
Pages:
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296