Her tone was low, mocking. He disdained to reply.
"Really, I am disappointed, after my not having betrayed who you were to the prince."
"Why didn't you?" he said.
She laughed. "Perhaps because I am an artist, and it seemed inartistic to intervene—to interrupt the action at an inopportune moment—to stultify what promised to be an unusually involved complication. When first I saw and recognized you on the Nevski, it was like one of those divine surprises of the master dramatist, M. Sardou. Really, I was indebted for the thrill of it. Besides, had I spoken, the prince might have tossed you overboard; he is quite capable of doing so. That, too, would have been inartistic, would have turned a comedy of love into rank melodrama."
Rank nonsense! Of course such a conversation could not be real. But he cried out in the dream: "What matter if his excellency had tossed me overboard? What good am I here?"
"To her, you mean?"
"To her, of course." Bitterly.
The vision's eyes were very bright; her plastic, rather mature form bent nearer. He felt a cool hand at the bandage, readjusting it about his head. That, naturally, could not be. She who had betrayed Betty Dalrymple to the prince would not be sedulous about Mr. Heatherbloom's injury.
"Foolish boy!" she breathed. Incongruous solicitude! "Who are you? No common dog-tender—of that I am sure. What have you been?"
"What—" Wildly.