He stared. “Good Lord! I don't think vilely of you, Madame Obosky. I wasn't even aware that you danced in your bare feet and legs.”
“You have never seen Obosky dance?” she cried in astonishment.
“Never.”
She frowned. “Then, my friend, I was wrong in what I say just now. Most men who have seen me dance think I am a bad woman, and so they either covet me or despise me. If you have not had ze pleasure of seeing me, Mr. Percivail, you do not either covet me or despise me. That is fine. It is good to know that you do not despise me.” Observing the expression in his eyes, she went on calmly. “Oh, yes, I shall be very much please to have you covet me. Zat—that is all right. But if you despise me,—no, no, zat would be terrible.”
For a moment he was dashed. He did not know how to take her remark. She was a new, a strange type to him. After a sharp, quick look into her eyes, however, he came to the conclusion that she was absolutely sincere. So far as she was concerned, it was as if she had said nothing more outrageous than: “I shall be please to consider you one of my admirers.”
“My dear Madame,” he said, smiling, “permit me to express the hope that both of us may go on to the end of our days without having our peace of mind disturbed.”
She looked puzzled for a moment, and then favoured him with her broad, good-natured smile.
WEST WIND DRIFT 85
“Spoken like a Frenchman,” she cried, and added, “and with equal sincerity, I fear. Go your way, Monsieur Percivail. I shall keep my gauze. Some day when we are very old people and very old friends I may then be permitted to bandage your hands. At present, however, the risk is too great, eh? I am so inexperience. I might by accident tie your hands in my clumsiness, and zat—that would make so much trouble for Miss Clinton to untie zem,—yes?”
Now there was mockery in her eyes. His face hardened.