‘There’s too much guessing to be done here,’ said I impatiently; and I started walking again. But presently I heard a voice say softly, and in a tone that seemed to address nobody in particular—me least of all:
‘We Neopalians like a man who can be angry, and I began to think you never would.’
‘I am not the least angry,’ said I with great indignation. I hate being told that I am angry when I am merely showing firmness.
Now at this protest of mine Euphrosyne saw fit to laugh—the most hearty laugh she had given since I had known her. The mirthfulness of it undermined my wrath. I stood still opposite her, biting the end of my moustache.
‘You may laugh,’ said I, ‘but I’m not angry; and I shall pull this house down, or dig it up, in cold blood, in perfectly cold blood.’
‘You are angry,’ said Euphrosyne, ‘and you say you’re not. You are like my father. He would stamp his foot furiously like that, and say, “I am not angry, I am not angry, Phroso.”’
Phroso! I had forgotten that diminutive of my guest’s classical name. It rather pleased me, and I repeated gently after her, ‘Phroso, Phroso!’ and I’m afraid I eyed the little foot that had stamped so bravely.
‘He always called me Phroso. Oh, I wish he were alive! Then Constantine—’
‘Since he isn’t,’ said I, sitting on the table by Phroso (I must write it, it’s a deal shorter),—by Phroso’s elbow—‘since he isn’t, I’ll look after Constantine. It would be a pity to spoil the house, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’ve sworn,’ said Phroso.