“The fact that they are the outgrowth of the worst passions of both races––at least so I have heard it said by men who make more of a study of such questions than I.”
A party of people moved between the two women and the speakers. The Marquise heard Kora draw a sobbing breath. She hesitated an instant, her own eyes flashing, her cheeks burning. He to sit in judgment on others––he!
Then she laid her hand on the wrist of Kora.
“Come with me,” she said, softly, in English, and the girl with one glance of tear-wet eyes, obeyed.
The Marquise opened the door beside her, a few steps further and another door led into an ante-room belonging to a portion of the building closed for repairs.
“Why do you weep?” she asked briefly, but the kindly clasp of her wrist told that the questioner was not without sympathy, and the girl strove to compose herself while staring at the other in amazement.
“You––I have seen you––I remember you,” she said, wonderingly, “the Marquise de Caron!”
“Yes;” the face of the Marquise flushed, “and you are the dancer––Kora. Why did you weep at their words?”
“Since you know who I am, Madame, I need not hesitate to tell you more,” she said, though she did hesitate, and looked up, deprecatingly, to the Marquise, who stood a few paces away leaning against the window.