Cartaret inwardly cursed Chitta’s fidelity. What he said was: “Of course.” He knew that just here he might say something gallant, and that he would think of that something an hour hence; but he could not think of it now.
The Girl touched the turpentine bottle.
“And may we take it to our room?”
“Eh? Oh, certainly,” said Cartaret.
She held out her hand, the palm lowered.
“Good-night,” she said.
Cartaret’s heart bounded: this time she had not said “Good-by.” He seized the hand. Chitta growled, and he released it with a conventional handshake.
The Girl smiled.
“Ah, yes,” she said; “this afternoon it puzzled me, but now I recollect: you Americans, sir, shake one’s hand, do you not?”
She was gone, and glowering Chitta with her, before he could answer.