She had been entrusted with all their secrets and there was no question of betrayal. She knew too much about the consequences now to try that.
When Emile came up from below she asked him why he had insulted her by turning her out.
Did he not trust her, or did he think she had not enough intelligence.
For answer he laughed cynically, "I'll make use of you and your intelligence fast enough—when I want them. You were cavilling at being overworked the other day."
Of Vladimir and Paul she saw nothing in the daytime, for they both ignored her, but in the evenings they all sat together up on deck, and Paul sang and played the guitar while Arithelli would listen entranced and faint with pleasure.
A love of melody was the birthright of her race, and the boy had a genius for music. He seemed to have but two ideas in life—that, and a devotion which almost amounted to idolatry for the older man.
They would walk up and down for hours, Vladimir with his hand on Paul's shoulder talking, gesticulating and commanding, while the other, his eyes on the ground, listened and assented.
Sometimes Vladimir would speak to him in Russian with an accent that was in itself a caress, and Arithelli, who watched them curiously, noticed and wondered to see the boy flush and colour like a woman.
She always looked forward with the keenest pleasure to those evenings.
The days bored her, inasmuch as she was capable of being bored, and she hated the glare and glitter of the sun and sky.