“Am I all right?” said a smirking voice.
And there was Kishwégin, dusky, coy, with long black hair and a short chamois dress, gaiters and moccasins and bare arms: so coy, and so smirking. Alvina burst out laughing.
“But shan’t I do?” protested Mr. May, hurt.
“Yes, you’re wonderful,” said Alvina, choking. “But I must laugh.”
“But why? Tell me why?” asked Mr. May anxiously. “Is it my appearance you laugh at, or is it only me? If it’s me I don’t mind. But if it’s my appearance, tell me so.”
Here an appalling figure of Ciccio in war-paint strolled on to the stage. He was naked to the waist, wore scalp-fringed trousers, was dusky-red-skinned, had long black hair and eagle’s feathers—only two feathers—and a face wonderfully and terribly painted with white, red, yellow, and black lines. He was evidently pleased with himself. His curious soft slouch, and curious way of lifting his lip from his white teeth, in a sort of smile, was very convincing.
“You haven’t got the girdle,” he said, touching Mr. May’s plump waist—“and some flowers in your hair.”
Mr. May here gave a sharp cry and a jump. A bear on its hind legs, slow, shambling, rolling its loose shoulders, was stretching a paw towards him. The bear dropped heavily on four paws again, and a laugh came from its muzzle.
“You won’t have to dance,” said Geoffrey out of the bear.
“Come and put in the flowers,” said Mr. May anxiously, to Alvina.