“What ails you?” said Zouche, sauntering up to her as she stood behind the wings; “You look like a small thunder-cloud!”
She gave an unmistakable gesture in the direction of that quarter of the theatre where the Royal box was situated.
“I hate him!” she said, with a stamp of her little foot.
“The King? So do I!” And Zouche lit a cigarette and stuck it between his lips by way of a stop-gap to a threatening violent expletive; “An insolent, pampered, flattered fool! Yet you wanted to dance before him; and now you’ve done it! The fact will serve you as a kind of advertisement! That is all!”
“I do not want to be advertised through his favour!” And Pequita closed her tiny teeth on her scarlet under-lip in suppressed anger; “But I have not danced before him yet! I will!”
Zouche looked at her sleepily. He was not drunk—though he had,—of course,—been drinking.
“You have not danced before him? Then what have you been doing?”
“Walking!” answered Pequita, with a fierce little laugh, her colour coming and going with all the quick wavering hue of irritated and irritable Spanish blood, “I have, as they say ‘walked across the stage.’ I shall dance presently!”
He smiled, flicking a little ash off his cigarette.
“You are a curious child!” he said; “By and by you will want severely keeping in order!”