“But you were going away without a word to me?” Sylvia could not refrain from tormenting herself with this question.
“Oh no, I was coming to say good-by, but you don’t understand how closely he watches me.”
The thought of Camacho’s jealous antics recurred to Lily with the imminence of his return; she begged Sylvia, now that all her questions were answered, to escape. It was too late; there was a sound of footsteps upon the stairs and the noise of angry voices above deep gobbles of protested innocence from the black servant.
The entrance reminded Sylvia of “Il Barbiere di Siviglia,” for when Camacho came leaping into the room, as thin and active as a grasshopper, the priest was holding his coattails with one hand and with the other making the most operatic gestures of despair, like Don Basilio. In the doorway the black servant continued to gobble at everybody in turn, including the Almighty, to witness the clarity of her conscience.
“What language do you speak?” Sylvia asked, sharply, while Camacho was struggling to free himself from the restraint of the priest.
“I speak English! Gaddam! Hell! Five hundred hells!” the croupier shouted. “And I have sweared a swore that you will not interrupt between me myself and my Lili.”
Camacho raised his arm to shake his fist, and the priest caught hold of it, which made Camacho turn round and open on him with Portuguese expletives.
“When you’ve quite done cracking Brazil nuts with your teeth, perhaps you’ll listen to me,” Sylvia began.
“No, you hear me, no, no, no, no, no, no!” Camacho shouted. “And I will not hear you. I have heard you enough. You shall not take her away. Putain!”
“If you want to be polite in French,” Sylvia said. “Come along!