Hilton had strode to the end of his prison, and thrown himself in a dissatisfied frame of mind upon the mats; the door had swung to, and there was a heavy curtain between, so that he did not hear what was said, nor see the hearty pressure of the hand that succeeded before Chumbley left the dining-room and joined his friend; while the Malay princess stood alone, with her hands clasped and her bosom heaving.
“I have been an idiot, and mad,” she muttered to herself. “He is right; I have done wrong, but I cannot go back now; I should lose all. I do not know these Englishmen. I thought he would have been proud and glad, and now he looks down upon me, and I feel so low—so crushed—that I could kill myself with rage. Ah! why do I not know more of their ways? I am but a poor, weak savage still, and I show my temper like a child.”
She walked wearily to the window, and stood with her broad forehead leaning against the bars, and for quite an hour neither of her women dared to approach her.
“Well, old fellow, feel any better for your dinner?” said Chumbley, heartily, as he strode up to the divan.
“Dinner? No. Hang the woman; how dare she insult us like that?” chafed Hilton. “As if there were anything between Helen Perowne now and me.”
“It was rather warm upon you, certainly,” said Chumbley; “but she was wild, and you were not above a few bitter repartees.”
“Bitter? Why, you are taking the Jezebel’s part!”
“Come, come, come, don’t call ugly names,” said Chumbley, sturdily.
“No name is too bad for such a woman!” cried Hilton.
“Drop it, I say,” cried Chumbley. “We’ve eaten her dinner and drunk her wine. Don’t let’s abuse her now.”