CHAPTER XXI
In a fashionable London hotel a little party of three sat at dinner. The dining-room was a large place, full of well-dressed people. It was bright with electric light, and under a cover of greenery a band played not too loudly.
Among the crowd of diners none seemed better known than the girl with the short, golden curls who sat with the thin, studious-looking man and the fresh-faced, fair-haired boy. Very often lorgnettes were turned in her direction; for, when in town, no girl was more sought after than Pansy Langham.
As Pansy sat with her father and Captain Cameron a man who had been sitting at the far end of the room came to their table, greeting all three with the air of an old acquaintance.
Afterwards he turned to Cameron.
"Well, and how's tennis? Are you still champion in your own little way?" he asked.
"To tell you the truth, Dennis," Cameron answered, "in Grand Canary one man gave me a thorough licking. And he was a rank outsider too!"
"How pleased you must have felt. Who was your executioner?"
"A man of the name of Le Breton. A French millionaire."
Dennis laughed in a disparaging manner.
"French he calls himself, does he? That's like his cheek. I met him once in Paris, a haughty sort of customer who thinks the whole world is run for him. He's a half-breed really, for all his money and his high-handed ways."
The conversation had taken a turn that held a fearsome interest for Pansy. But to hear Raoul Le Breton described as a half-breed was a shock and surprise to her.
"Mr. Le Breton a half-caste!" she exclaimed.
Dennis glanced at her.
"Where did you drop across him?" he asked sharply.
"In Grand Canary also."
"Well, the less you have to do with 'sich' the better," he said in a brotherly way. "He's a hot lot. The very devil. No sort of a pal for a girl like you."
"I thought he was French," Pansy said in a strained voice.
"He poses as such, but he isn't. He's a nigger cross, French-Arab. And what's more he's a Mohammedan."
"You're a trifle sweeping, Dennis," Sir George interposed. "If you'd dealt with coloured people as much as I have, you'd know there was a great difference between a nigger and an Arab. An Arab in his own way is a gentleman. And his religion has a great resemblance to our own. He is not a naked devil-worshipper like the negro."
Pansy welcomed her father's intervention. At that moment her world was crashing into even greater ruins around her.
Raoul Le Breton a half-caste! The man she loved "a nigger"!
Pansy did not hide from herself the fact that she still loved Le Breton, but this last piece of news about him put him quite beyond the pale.
Also it put a new light on the affair of Lucille Lemesurier.
He was of a different race, a different religion, a different colour, with a wholly different outlook.
After the first gust of temper was over, Pansy had wanted to find some excuse for Le Breton over the affair of the French actress.
It is easy to find excuses for a person when one is anxious to find them. And now it seemed she had one.
He was a Mohammedan. His religion allowed him four wives, and as many other women as he pleased. No wonder he had been angry at the fuss she had made over Lucille Lemesurier! According to his code he had done no wrong.
Now Pansy wanted to apologise for her rudeness in invading his villa; for her temper, and the scene that followed.
The fault was all hers. She ought to have found out more about him before letting things go so far. She had liked him, and she had troubled about nothing else.
She ought never to have encouraged him. For when they had breakfasted together that morning among the red roses, she knew he was in love with her.
"There are lots of things about myself I haven't told you."
Le Breton's remark came back to her mind.
No wonder he had wanted to marry her at once! Before she found out anything about him.
Pansy tried to feel angry with her erstwhile lover. But, phantom-like, the strength of his arms was around her, his handsome, sunburnt face was close to her own, his voice was whispering words of love and longing, his lips on hers in those passionate kisses that made her forget everything but himself.
Her eyes went round the room, a brave, tortured look in them.
Were there other women there, suffering as she was suffering? Suffering, and who yet had to go on smiling? The world demanded her smiles, and it should have them, although her heart was bleeding at the tragedy of her own making.
Not only her heart, but Raoul's. Because she had encouraged him.
She must not blame him. For the odds were all against him. She must try and see things from his point of view—the point of view of a polygamist.
That night when Pansy got back home, she wrote the following note:—
"Dear Mr. Le Breton,
I owe you an apology. Only to-night I have learnt that you are of another race, another religion than mine. It makes things look quite different. You see things from the point of view of your race, I, of mine. I am sorry I did not know all this sooner; I should have acted very differently. I should not have come to your villa that night and made a stupid fuss, for one thing. About such matters men of your race and religion are quite different from men of my own. I am sorry for all that occurred. For my own bad temper and the annoyance I must have caused you. But I did not know anything about you then.
Yours regretfully,
Pansy Langham.
P.S.—I shall be calling at Grand Canary in about ten days' time with my father, Sir George Barclay. I am going out to Africa with him. If you care to come on board during the evening I should like to see you and say how sorry I am.
P. L."