“C’est trop fort, Mademoiselle,” Rudolph exclaimed, with a flame of masterful passion in his eyes.
“Vraiment?” retorted Photini, coolly. “Occupez-vous de vos affaires, Monsieur, et laissez les miennes,” and the utter vileness of her accent seriously imperilled the dignity of her speech and deportment. “As for you,” she continued in Greek, turning to Andromache, “you will be so good as to leave Rubinstein, Ehrenstein and every other ’stein alone, and content yourself with scales and exercises for the next year.”
In spite of her cruel and inadmissible behaviour, it was impossible not to feel some sympathy with the just anger of a severe and conscientious artist, though one naturally wished it had sought a less explosive outlet; and it was equally impossible not to recognise that such severity, in more measured and human form, is very salutary for the inefficient and abnormally rash young amateur. But of course all direct sympathy was for the moment concentrated on poor Andromache. Rudolph followed her, looking like a quarrelsome knight, as he stood guard over insulted girlhood, until her brother rushed forward to carry her home; and swore to himself, with petulant emphasis, that never again would he address a word of civility to the woman he mentally apostrophised as a monster and a fiend.
“Ne pleurez pas, Mademoiselle,” he cried, feverishly. “C’est qui doit avoir honte. Pour vous, vous devez la mepriser. Dieu sait si vous en avez le droit.”
“Laissez-moi, Monsieur. Je ne puis rien dire,” said Andromache in a choking voice, and seeing Miltiades coming towards her with a furious stride and the kind of look he must have worn when he sent those five thousand Turks to Paradise, she rushed to him and gathered her fingers round his arm convulsively. But a warrior and hero like Miltiades could not expect to appreciate the dignity of a pacific departure. With his sister upon his arm he walked to the spot where Photini was seated, listening to the bantering expostulations of Agiropoulos leaning over the back of her chair. She looked impassively at the angry face of the captain, then at the shamed and drooping head of Andromache, but said nothing.
“Mademoiselle Photini Natzelhuber,” said Miltiades, with a curt bow, “I have the honour to announce to you that my sister will in future discontinue her music lessons.”
“And what difference do you think that will make to me?” retorted Photini. “It will be her loss.”
“If you were a man I should know how to deal with you. But as you are only a woman, I can but despise you.”
“If it gives you any satisfaction, I am happy to have afforded you the occasion.”