He saw her glance again toward the rear of the room, but when he looked he saw nobody. The Lady was saying:
It helped him very little. He said;
“That sounds Spanish.”
Instantly her head went up. There was blue fire in her eyes as she answered:
“I have not one drop of Spanish blood; not one.”
He had meant no offense, yet it was clear that he came dangerously near one. He made haste to apologize.
“You do not understand,” she said, smiling a little. “In my country we hate the Spaniard.”
“What is your country?”
It was the most natural of questions—he had put it once before—yet he had now no sooner uttered it than he felt that he had committed another indiscretion. This time, when she glanced at the rear of the room, he distinctly saw Chitta’s head disappearing behind the screen.