She held out her soft, shapely hand to him, and, acting on the impulse of the moment, Chumbley took it in his, pressed it warmly, and then raised it to his lips before it was withdrawn.
Hilton stamped his foot upon the bamboo floor, and then burst into a derisive laugh.
“Is this real, Chumbley?” he cried, “or is it part of a play?”
“I know what you mean by part of a play,” cried the Princess, whose eyes began to flash as she felt the sting of Hilton’s words. “It is no false make-believe, but real. I told you without shame, as a chief, that I love you, and that is why I brought you here.”
“I am greatly honoured by your attention, madam,” said Hilton, mockingly.
“Listen to me,” cried the Princess, “while I remind you that I am a poor oppressed woman. I have been trampled upon by my enemies, because I am a woman. I am constantly plundered; my people are cruelly treated; and soon I shall be a princess no longer, for my people will say that I am no mother and protector to them, and they will leave me.”
“And pray, madam, what is this to me?” said Hilton, coldly. “Do you forget that I have heard all this before?”
“What is it to you?” said the Inche Maida, drawing herself up, and speaking fiercely now. “Did I not tell you that I loved you? From the first day I saw you I loved you, and said you should be my lord.”
“’Pon my honour, Chumbley,” cried Hilton, “this is too ridiculous!” and he looked his indignation. “Why, what a handsome fellow I must be. Are we going back into the regions of romance?”
“Mind what you are saying,” said Chumbley, quietly, as he saw a fierce look of anger in the Inche Maida’s eyes, lit by the mocking, contemptuous manner in which Hilton listened to her words.