“But I’m not. Sure it’s Irish I am—glory be to God.” The brogue was unmistakable and despite himself Carew’s grave face relaxed.
“It’s the same thing,” he said with indifference. But she negatived his assertion with a scornful wave of the hand.
“Not to us,” she said laughingly. Then she grew grave again, looking at him with undisguised interest. “Do you mean it, really?” she said with deliberation. “Do you mean that if I had been an Arab or a Frenchwoman you would have done—nothing?”
He nodded in silent assent.
“And because I was English, or you thought I was English, you set your prejudice on one side and did what you did—just to satisfy your esprit-de-race?”
“Yes.”
She looked away with an odd little laugh. “You are very refreshing.”
Carew scowled at the hint of mockery in her voice.
“How so?” he asked stiffly. But she laughed again and shook her head, refusing to enlighten him. Then with a sudden change of manner she turned to him again, eyeing him almost wistfully.
“You refused to shake hands with me—twice, Sir Gervas,” she said slowly, flushing slightly, “and I cut you dead at the opera. Shall we call quits—just for this morning—your prejudice against my rudeness? Can’t you forget, just for once, that you are talking to one of the sex you despise—I can’t help being a woman, I would much rather have been a man—and tell me the things you know so well, the things that nobody I meet with in Algiers seems to care about—the Arabs, the desert, and all this wonderful country. Not the desert the tourists go to but the real desert, far away in the south there,” she added eagerly, kneeling up suddenly to point with unexpected precision towards the region of which she spoke. Mechanically his eyes followed her outstretched hand. He was trying to understand his own strange hesitation. It would have been easy to excuse himself, alleging any plausible excuse that offered, and go as he had come leaving her to the solitude he had interrupted. But he did not want to go. The astounding truth came to him suddenly and his lips curved in cynical self-scorn. What sort of a fool was he, what strength of purpose had he that, professing to hate all women, he should surrender to the charm of this one woman? And wherein lay the charms he reluctantly admitted? Her beauty? He smiled more bitterly than before—he had learnt the worthlessness of outward loveliness. Was it then the diversity of mood she displayed? He glanced at her covertly as she sat leaning against the cork tree, apparently indifferent to his silence, her eyes fixed not on him but on the tips of her neat riding boots, whistling as she had whistled to the lizard. A boyish graceful figure, pulsing with life and health, bearing this morning no kind of resemblance to the white-faced fainting girl he had carried in his arms or the proud weary-looking woman he had seen at the opera. Which was the real woman? And what was her present motive? Was it really a disinterested and genuine desire to learn something of the real life of the country that had led her to endeavour to detain him at her side—or was she merely amusing herself at his expense, flattered at having claimed the attention of a man known as a determined misogynist? His face darkened and meditated refusal sprang to his lips. But the words died away unspoken. Flight was tantamount to a confession of weakness against which his pride rebelled. If she was playing with him—so much the worse for her. If, on the other hand, she was sincere in the request she had made—with a shrug he turned and led his horse to the further side of the little clearing, tethering him with no show of haste to the branch of a tree.