"I've been trying to ride off my disappointment," he replied.
Pansy, too, had been fighting a battle of her own. Most of her night had been spent in arguing with temptation.
She was rich and independent. Why shouldn't she marry the man she loved, even if it were going against all the canons of her society? She was wealthy enough to defy society. She owed more than her life to him. Gratitude as well as love urged her towards him. Why should she make him suffer through no fault of his own? Why should she suffer herself? Why should she shut herself up from the man she loved because he happened to be a—a——
"A nigger."
The echo of Dennis's voice shouted the word at her, as it had seemed to shout that night in the London hotel, when Le Breton's name had been mentioned.
Pansy looked at her host as he lolled beside her; a picture of strength and handsomeness.
She wished his dark blood were more in evidence. That he did not look exactly like some of the big French, Spanish, and Italian men she had seen occasionally in various places on the continent. So absolutely European was he that it was impossible to think he was half-Arab.
"I wish you weren't so nice and handsome, Raoul," she said impulsively.
He cast a quick, speculative glance at her.
Perhaps, after all, a little more patience was all that was needed—patience combined with his own presence.