“I see,” she said after a moment. “You are in love with her.”
“Ridiculous,” he exclaimed, scowling.
“And so you prefer to have her fix your hands. I see, my friend. Voila! If so is the case, I am outcast.”
“But, confound it, it isn't the case,” he cried. “It's simply this: I wouldn't for the world have her feel that I am not grateful, and that's exactly what it would look like if I allowed you or any one else to butt in, Madame Obosky.”
“Butt in?” she said, a puzzled look in her dark eyes. “What is that?”
“It's English for interfere,” said he, shortly.
She removed her hand from his arm. He was conscious of the abrupt termination of an exquisite thrill.
“Very well,” she said, lifting her chin. “I shall not interfere.”
“Forgive me, please,” he said. “It's mighty good of you. Please don't think me ungracious. You understand, however,—don't you?”
“No, I do not,” she replied, shaking her head slowly. Suddenly her eyes widened. “Is it because I dance in my bare feet, in my bare legs, that you think so vilely of me?”