"Are you going back?" She had turned from him and was pulling at the fingers of the glove he had picked up.
"Of course! I am only kicking my heels here till I can collect the money and stores—ay, and the men—I want. I give my orders in London, and I must be here to see to the transshipment of stores and the embarkation of my small force! Not meant for the newspapers, you see, Lady Kitty—these little details!"
He drew himself up smiling, his worn aspect expressing just that mingling of dare-devil adventure with subtler and more self-conscious things which gave edge and power to his personality.
"I heard you were wounded," said Kitty, abruptly.
"So I was—badly. We were defending a polje—one of their high mountain valleys, against a Beg and his troops. My left arm"—he pointed to the black sling in which it was still held—"was nearly cut to pieces. However, it is practically well."
He took it out of the sling and showed that he could use it. Then his expression changed. He stepped back to the door, and opened it ceremoniously.
"Don't, however, let me delay you, Lady Kitty—by my chatter."
Kitty's cheeks were crimson. Her momentary yielding vanished in a passion of scorn. What!—he knew that she had seen him before, seen him with that woman—and he dared to play the mere shattered hero, kept in Venice by these crusader's reasons!
"Have you another volume on the way?" she asked him, as she advanced. "I read your last."
Her smile was the smile of an enemy. He eyed her strangely.