She knew that mood. Perhaps, after all, it would be better to postpone the discussion; but then, sometimes these fits of fury and rudeness lasted for months. It was impossible to wait all that time.
"I am not particularly concerned about my soul," she answered carelessly, dipping her fingers in the fine Venetian bowl before her and drying them delicately. One of Abinger's devils betrayed itself by laughing loudly and with character, but she did not even wince.
"Your young white b-body, then?" He pushed back his chair from the table with a horrible scrench on the polished floor.
"You talk like some odious sultan, but you forget that I am not a slave," she flashed back at him.
She pushed her chair from the table also, and loosening from her wrist a little painted inlaid fan which she had bought from a street-seller in Algiers, she essayed to cool her flushed face.
"Cigarettes, Babiyaan!" she said. "It is very hot; I think I will smoke out in the garden," she finished coldly to Abinger.
But he had risen too, and lounged in the doorway leading to the verandah.
"Oh, p-pray let us finish this interesting discussion."
They stood looking at each other for a moment: she, quite collectedly; he, smiling with his eyes and sneering with his mouth. Babiyaan, well aware that she was not allowed to smoke, knew better than to hand her the cigarettes, but placed them on the table and discreetly retired.
"There is no discussion, Luce," she said quietly, though her voice contained a tremor. "I simply want you to realise that it is impossible for me to go on living like this for ever. It isn't fair...." she added petulantly. He said nothing, only smiled. She regained her dignity and spoke more gently: