“Who wants to escape?” she asked, in so cool a tone that Danny, who had naturally anticipated a more feminine reception of his violence, failed to sustain his part by letting her see that he was puzzled. She strolled across the room to the wash-stand; then she strolled up to the brigand.
“Put that knife away,” she said. “I want to tell you something, darling Danny.”
In the gloom she could see that he threw a suspicious glance at her for the endearing epithet, but he put away the knife.
“What do you want to say?” he growled.
“Only this.” She brought her arm swiftly round and emptied the water-bottle over him. “Though I ought to smash it on your greasy head. I read in a book once that the Jews were a subject race. You’d better light the gas.”
He spluttered that he was all wet, and she turned away from him, horribly scared that in a moment his fingers would be tightening round her neck; but he had taken off his coat and was shaking it.
Sylvia poked the fire and sat down again in the arm-chair. “Listen,” she began.
He came across the room in his shirt-sleeves, his tie hanging in a cascade of amber silk over his waistcoat.
“No, don’t pull down the blinds,” she added. “I want to be quite sure you really have cooled down and aren’t going to play with that knife again. Listen. It’s no good your trying to make love to me. I don’t want to be made love to by anybody, least of all by you.”
Danny looked more cheerful when she assured him of her indifference to other men.