Nielsen regarded her through his eyeglass with great consternation.
“I beg your pardon,” he said at last.
“My dear!” said Mrs. Travis—want of affability in other people was a crime to her, it rendered things so uncomfortable.
“Oh! You are excused,” said Jocelyn, whose sudden anger had evaporated now that they were out of sight of the intending sportsman—“it doesn’t matter for foreigners, you know, only you mustn’t do it again.”
She experienced a sudden compunction, and smiled at him appealingly.
Nielsen, who accepted her shrewdly as one not to be judged by ordinary standards, liked her the better for the swift changing of her moods.
They passed through Ventimiglia and along the level road that runs to Bordighera; past the odorous tannery, past the town’s custom-house, past the ill-looking, outlying, roadside cafés.
A villainous Italian, with a dirty face, coming out of one of these, took his slouch hat off to Giles, who returned him a nod.
“Who is that horrid-looking man?” said Jocelyn.
“A friend of mine,” replied Giles gravely; “he pays professional visits to the villa sometimes; he is one of a profession the most elevated in these parts, plays the barrel-organ.”