“What? The girl with the hair?”
“Yes,” answered Paul. He had never noticed Catrina’s hair. Etta’s appraising eye had seen more in one second than Paul had perceived in twenty years.
“Yes,” he answered. “But, of course, she is handicapped.”
“By her appearance?”
“No; by her circumstances. Her name is sufficient to handicap her every moment in this country. But she does a great deal. She—she found me out, confound her!”
Etta had risen; she was looking curiously at the cupboard where Paul’s infected clothes were hanging. He had forbidden her to go near it. She turned and looked at him.
“Found you out! How?” she asked, with a queer smile.
“Saw through my disguise.”
“Yes—she would do that!” said Etta aloud to herself.
“What is this door?” she asked, after a pause.