Numè, who was spending the night with Mrs. Davis, stood a lonely little figure in the shadow of the balcony. She did not wish to say good-bye to any of them—she did not like the pretty Americans, she told herself, because she did not believe them any longer.
Sinclair went up to her, holding out his hand.
"Good-night, Miss Numè," he said.
The girl put her little hand behind her.
"Numè not lig' any longer big Americazan gentlemans," she said. "Mrs. Davees tell me nod to lig'—goonight,"—this last very stiffly and politely.
The man smiled grimly: "Ah, Miss Numè," he said, "you must always choose your own—like whom you choose;—don't let any one tell you who to like and who not to."
He looked searchingly at her face a moment, then turned and passed out with the other guests, understanding the truth.