“Please tell me what it all means, monsieur; why are you like this?”
“Because,”—he cried with a sudden passionate outburst of feeling,—“because you have lied to me!”
“Monsieur!” she exclaimed, in a shocked voice.
“You have done that,” he cried; “you have lift your eyes to heaven and swear that you were not interested in him, and then—” he stopped, and put his hands to either side of his collar as if it strangled him.
She grew pale at the sight of his emotion.
“Is it that man still?” she asked.
“But naturally it is that man still! Je ne me fâche jamais sans raison.”
“But what is there new to worry about him?”
She dared not contemplate smiling, instead she felt that the Englishman was rapidly becoming the centre of a prospective tragedy.
Von Ibn scowled until his black brows formed a terrible V just over his eyes.