It is easy to find excuses for a person when one is anxious to find them. And now it seemed she had one.
He was a Mohammedan. His religion allowed him four wives, and as many other women as he pleased. No wonder he had been angry at the fuss she had made over Lucille Lemesurier! According to his code he had done no wrong.
Now Pansy wanted to apologise for her rudeness in invading his villa; for her temper, and the scene that followed.
The fault was all hers. She ought to have found out more about him before letting things go so far. She had liked him, and she had troubled about nothing else.
She ought never to have encouraged him. For when they had breakfasted together that morning among the red roses, she knew he was in love with her.
"There are lots of things about myself I haven't told you."
Le Breton's remark came back to her mind.
No wonder he had wanted to marry her at once! Before she found out anything about him.
Pansy tried to feel angry with her erstwhile lover. But, phantom-like, the strength of his arms was around her, his handsome, sunburnt face was close to her own, his voice was whispering words of love and longing, his lips on hers in those passionate kisses that made her forget everything but himself.
Her eyes went round the room, a brave, tortured look in them.