He half rose; but the woman seized his arm. She broke into loud sounds, patently protestations.
“Nonsense,” said Cartaret. “Why not? Come on; I’ll knock at her door.”
The duenna would not have her mistress disturbed. The ancient voice rose to a shriek.
The shriek grew louder. With amazing strength, the old woman forced his unsuspecting body back to its former position; she came near to jolting the lamp from his hand.
It was then that Cartaret heard a lesser noise behind them: a voice, the low sweet voice of The Rose-Lady, asked, in the duenna’s strange tongue, a question from the doorway. Cartaret turned his head.
She was standing there in the dim light, a sort of kimono gathered about her, her sandaled feet peeping from its lower folds, the lovely arm that held the curious dressing-gown in place bare to the elbow. She was smiling at the answer that her guardian had already given her; Cartaret thought her even more beautiful than when he had seen her before.
The duenna had scuttled forward on her knees and, amid a series of cries, was pressing the hem of the kimono to her lips. The Girl’s free hand was raising the petitioner.
“I am sorry that you have been disturbed by Chitta,” she was saying.
Cartaret understood then that he was addressed. Moreover, he became conscious that he was by no means at his best on his knees, with his clothes even more rumpled than usual, his hands black and, probably, his face no better. He scrambled to his feet.