“But she does not know,” Gemma protested softly. “She cannot guess that she is hurting you.”
“She is like a Creole,” he answered, shuddering. “Do you remember her face that night when we brought in the beggar-child? That is how the half-castes look when they laugh.”
Another burst of laughter came from the garden. Gemma rose and opened the window. Zita, with a gold-embroidered scarf wound coquettishly round her head, was standing in the garden path, holding up a bunch of violets, for the possession of which three young cavalry officers appeared to be competing.
“Mme. Reni!” said Gemma.
Zita's face darkened like a thunder-cloud. “Madame?” she said, turning and raising her eyes with a defiant look.
“Would your friends mind speaking a little more softly? Signor Rivarez is very unwell.”
The gipsy flung down her violets. “Allez-vous en!” she said, turning sharply on the astonished officers. “Vous m'embetez, messieurs!”
She went slowly out into the road. Gemma closed the window.
“They have gone away,” she said, turning to him.
“Thank you. I—I am sorry to have troubled you.”