“And that?” he asked.
“I did it.”
“And the hair?”
“The penalty of an ill-arranged coiffure.”
“And the red mark on your face—blood, it looks like.”
“Blood!” she cried; “blood? where—where?”
“On your lips—around the mouth—”
The coquette vanished—the horror of it all flashed back upon her:—Lotzen’s sybaritic leer—his easy confidence of assured success—the touch of his loathsome hand to her face—the sickening sensation as her teeth cut through his flesh and scraped the bones beneath—with a cry of disgust she sprang up, swayed unsteadily, and would have fallen had not Moore caught her.
“Water!” she implored, “water!” rubbing her lips frantically with her handkerchief—“water, oh, water!”
Amazed—mystified—alarmed, he stood an instant irresolute—then swinging her up, he bore her to where, near the sun-dial, a fountain played and splashed among the giant ferns. As they reached there, the nervous tumult subsided as quickly as it came, and she slipped swiftly out of his arms, and knelt beside the fountain, the spray powdering her hair with rainbow dust. And when she had bathed her face free of the blood-stain—though she could not wash away the red of her own embarrassment—she ventured to look at him.