Cartaret stood where she had left him, his brows knitted. He heard Chitta double-lock the door to their rooms. He was thinking thoughts that his brain was not accustomed to. It was some time before they became more familiar. Then he gasped:
“I wonder if my face is dirty!”
He took the lamp and sought the sole mirror that his room boasted. His face was dirty.
“Damn!” said Cartaret.
Down in the narrow street, an uncertain chorus was singing:
“There’s nothing, friend, ’twixt you and me
Except the best of company.
(There’s just one bock ’twixt you and me,
and I’ll catch up full soon!)
What woman’s lips compare to this:
This sturdy seidel’s frothy kiss——”
His guests were coming to seek him. They had remembered him at last.
Cartaret’s mind, however, was busy with other matters. He had not thought of the gallant thing that he might have said to The Girl, but he had thought of something equally surprising.
“Gee whiz!” he cried. “I understand now—it’s probably the custom of her country: she expected me to kiss her hand. Kiss her hand—and I missed the chance!”