His graceless incivility was no more than much that Marny had been called upon frequently to endure but tonight his boorishness was almost more than she could bear. His mistake with regard to Carew though regrettable was a perfectly natural one, but his cavalier treatment of the courteous little Frenchman was unpardonable. Scarlet with shame and confusion she could find no words to break the awkward silence that ensued. But the Governor, whose saving sense of humour was fortunately greater than his feeling of mortification, plunged nobly into the breach and made the best of the embarrassing situation in which he found himself. “Madame,” he stammered, with twitching lips, “I—I have the honour to present to you Monsieur Carew—a compatriot of your own,” and fled to hide his secret enjoyment of a contretemps he found exquisitely amusing. Carew the woman hater—and he had just introduced him to the most beautiful woman in Algiers. Bon Dieu, quelle comédie! But to Marny it was no comedy. Miserable and tongue-tied, giddy with pain, she tried vainly to collect herself, to formulate some adequate excuse that should cover her husband’s blunder and lessen the resentment she was sure the man beside her must feel at being publicly forced into an action that was totally against his universally known principles. Would he blame her for being the cause, though the unwitting cause, of his present predicament? Would he too leave her in this crowded room, the cynosure of curious eyes, to find her way alone to the group of English dowagers with whom she had the slightest acquaintance? Super-sensitive and innately shy the very thought of it made her shrink. The few seconds that had passed since the Governor’s hurried departure seemed magnified into hours. Angry at her own gaucherie she had nerved herself to make some halting apology when the opening bars of a waltz rising above the din of conversation occasioned a general rush for partners and in the comparative quiet that followed she heard the deep soft voice that had become so dear to her speaking with the slow hesitancy she had noticed before.
“You are looking very tired, Lady Geradine. Shall I take you out of this babel?”
And almost before she realised it she found herself walking beside him down the length of the long room, piloted skilfully between the dancing couples who already filled the floor. Once or twice he paused to exchange a nod and a passing word with a uniformed officer or an isolated group of Arabs, but she hardly noticed these slight interruptions and at length they reached the rapidly emptying entrance hall. Crossing it he turned down a short corridor that opened into a little winter garden where chairs were placed amongst palms and banks of tropical plants. At the moment the place was deserted. And quiet and dimly lit to Marny it seemed a haven of refuge after the glare and noise of the crowded reception rooms. With a feeling of relief she followed him to a fern-screened couch at the further end of the conservatory and sank into the low seat, stripping the long gloves from her hands and closing her eyes wearily. And looking down at her Carew saw her face convulsed with a sudden spasm of pain.
He was still inwardly raging at the incident of a few minutes ago, still seething with the strange hatred that had laid so strong a hold upon him—hatred that, aggravated by Geradine’s discourteous and overbearing manner, seemed tonight to have reached its culminant pitch. It was with difficulty that he had controlled himself just now in the ballroom. But something had restrained him, something—more impellent even than his desire to avoid a collision that could only have ended in a public fracas—that had risen up within him at the sight of the girl’s strained face. And as he looked at her now with his black brows drawn together in a heavy scowl he was still wondering at the impulse that had come to him to shield her, still trying vainly to understand his own motive in bringing her here. What had prompted him?
Was it anger or pleasure or only pity he felt as he stared again at the little drooping figure? A curious expression crept into his sombre eyes. What a child she looked—what a weary white-faced child!
“You ought to be at home and in bed,” he said, almost roughly. “Can I get you anything—champagne or a cup of coffee?”
She glanced up with a start.
“No, please, it’s nothing. Only a headache,” she stammered. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight,” she added with a shaky laugh. “I’m not given to headaches. I’m as strong as a horse, really.” But as she uttered her valiant little boast her voice broke and she looked away, twisting her gloves nervously between her hands. He could see that she was struggling with herself but he made no attempt to forestall the explanation he guessed was coming and waited, still standing, for her to speak. She turned to him at last, her troubled gaze not reaching his face but lingering on the picturesque details of his Arab dress.
“Sir Gervas—I’m sorry—that stupid blunder—” she faltered. Then suddenly her eyes met his and words came tumbling out in breathless haste. “—but you were with him that night in the desert, you let him think you were an Arab. He couldn’t possibly know you were English, that you could understand—”
“Do you think I mind being taken for an Arab?” he interrupted, pulling his heavy cloak closer round him and sitting down beside her. “It was a perfectly natural mistake and not worth a moment’s consideration, certainly not worth the value of a pair of gloves,” he added with a faint smile. And reaching out he drew them deliberately from between her twitching fingers. His voice was extraordinarily gentle but there was in it an underlying note of finality that made further apology impossible, and with a little sigh she relapsed into silence.