Anger rose in Tamara; the inference was not flattering, in his speech, or the tone in which he uttered it.
"To count the number of stones the creature is made of, of course," she said. "Those technical things are what one would go for at that time of night."
And now her companion rippled with laughter, infectious, joyous laughter.
"Ah, you are not so stupid as I thought!" he said, frankly. "You looked poetic and fine with that gauze scarf around your head sitting there—and then afterwards. Wheugh! It was like a pretty wax doll. I regretted having wasted the village on you. All that is full of meaning for me."
Tamara was interested in spite of her will to remain reserved, although she resented the wax-doll part.
"Yes?"—she faltered.
"You can learn all the lessons you want in life from the Sphinx," he went on. "What paltry atoms you and I are, and how little we matter to anyone but ourselves! She is cruel, too, and does not hesitate to tear one in pieces if she wishes and she could make one ready to get drunk on blood."
Tamara rounded her sweet eyes.
"Then the village there, full of men with the passions of animals, living from father to son forever the same, wailing for a death, rejoicing at a birth, taking strong physical pleasure in their marriage rights and their women, and beating them when they are tired; but you are too civilized in your country to understand any of these things."
Tamara was stirred; she felt she ought to be shocked.