“You did not get much, certainly,” said Chumbley.
“Then talk to your friend, and advise him. He will do what you say.”
“No,” said Chumbley, laughing, “that is just what he will not do. If ever there was a man who would not take my advice, it is Hilton.”
“Try him now that he is here—now that he knows how useless it is to fight against his fate. Speak to him, and speak kindly!” she whispered. “I am going to my women now.”
She took one step towards Hilton, holding out her hand to him in a gentle, appealing manner; but he only bowed distantly, and turned away.
The soft, appealing look passed from the Inche Maida’s face, giving place to an angry frown; but this died out as she turned to Chumbley.
“We two are friends, I hope?” she said, holding out her hand. “You are not angry with me?”
“Well, not very,” he replied, smiling; “one can’t be angry with a woman long for such a trick as this.”
“Yes,” she said, quickly, “it is a trick, as you English call it. I have won the trick.”
“Yes, you have won the trick,” assented Chumbley; “but you don’t hold the honours,” he added to himself.