She stood, looking round, as if uncertain how to act, evidently in expectation of someone to meet her. No one appeared and she moved off in search of a porter. Emile followed at a reasonable distance. Books he found desperately dull, but humanity in any shape or form was attractive to him, and the girl's appearance appealed to a deeply embedded love of the exotic and mysterious.
He watched with cynical amusement as she tried to explain her wishes in French to a porter, who spoke only the dialect of Catalonia. Her voice finally decided Emile on his line of conduct. Low-pitched it was, with subtle inflections, and with a hoarseness in the lower notes such as one hears in the voices of Jewish women.
A woman, whose vocal notes were of that enchanting timbre, was likely to prove interesting.
He advanced a few steps nearer, saying in French, "I speak the language. Can I be of any use?"
The girl turned, giving him a comprehensive glance, and bowed slightly in acknowledgment.
"Many thanks, Monsieur! I know scarcely any Spanish. Perhaps you would tell me where one could get lodgings. It seems rather hopeless for this man and myself to continue arguing in different languages, so if you would not mind—"
When they were both in the fiacre she did not speak, but leaned back, her hands in her lap, her feet crossed, looking straight in front of her with hazel-green eyes, expressionless as those of the Sphinx. Count Poleski congratulated himself in silence over his discovery. Here was a woman so unique that she asked no questions, did not volunteer after the manner of most women a flood of voluble information, apparently took everything for granted, and was in no way embarrassed by himself or his company.
In some respects she appeared a young girl, but her composure was certainly not youthful.
"So you're out from England," he said at last.
"From Paris," she answered him serenely. "I'm Arithelli of the Hippodrome." There was a girlish pride in her accents, and she looked at him sideways to observe the effect of her announcement.