“Yes,” she said interrupting; “I know, but to prevent further misunderstanding, I may just as well tell you that I want all my time in Constance for my other friend—”
They were at the door of the hotel, and she had her foot upon the lower step; he was just behind her, his hand beneath her elbow. She felt him give a violent start and drop his hand, and, looking around quickly to see what had happened, she forgot to end her sentence in the emotion caused by the sight of his face. A very fury of anger had surcharged his eyes and swelled the veins upon his temples.
“So!” he said, in a low tone that almost shook with intense and angry feeling, “that is why I may not come! He goes, does he? Bête que je suis, that I did not comprehend before!”
Rosina stared at him, motionless, for the space of perhaps ten seconds, and then an utter contempt filled her, and every other consideration fled.
She ran up two or three steps, crossed the hall, and passed the Portier like a flash, flew up the one flight of stairs that led to her corridor, and broke in upon Ottillie with a lack of dignity such as she was rarely guilty of.
“Ottillie,” she exclaimed, panting under the weight of many mixed feelings, “I want to leave for Constance by the first train that goes in the morning. I don’t care if it is at six o’clock, I’ll get up. Ring and find out about everything, and then see to the bill and all. I must go!”
Ottillie stood there, and her clever fingers were already unfastening her mistress’ hat-pins.
“Madame may rest assured,” she said quietly, “all shall be as she desires.”
Meanwhile below stairs Von Ibn had entered the café, lit a cigarette and taken up one of the evening journals.