“I didn’t dare,” said Lauriston at the foot of the stairs, “I was so ashamed of the mischief I had done.”
“You might have called to ask if I had got better.”
“What would Mr. Rahas have said?”
“Rahas!” A great flood of crimson blood mounted to her face, glowed in her cheeks, and heightened the brilliancy of her eyes, which flashed a liquid light of haughty indignation from china-blue white and velvet-brown iris. “Rahas! What right has he to speak? He has no claim in the world upon me!”
Evidently the impetuous little lady and the despised Rahas, whatever their relation to each other might be, had been expressing a mutual difference of opinion. The Englishman watched with equal measure of admiration and astonishment the rise of the sudden wave of passion which seemed almost incredibly strong for such a small creature to sustain. She was struck in the midst of her anger by the expression of his face.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I did not mean to laugh. I was wondering to see you so angry.”
The girl smiled, quite restored to good humour.
“Ah, yes, they used to say that when I was at school. English girls”—with a flash of contempt—“can’t be angry or sorry or happy or anything; they can only eat and drink and sleep and wrangle and giggle.”
“You are not English then?”