Dion was standing near the windows. The waiter, who had enormously thick mustaches, and who evidently shaved in the evening instead of in the morning, was going out at the farther door. He shut it rather loudly.
“Every one makes a noise in Pera. It’s de rigueur,” said Mrs. Clarke, coming to the tea-table.
“Do you know,” said Dion, “I used to think you looked punished?”
“Punished—I!”
There was a sudden defiance in her voice which he had never heard in it before. He came up to the table.
“Yes. In London I used to think you had a punished look and even a haunted look. Wasn’t that ridiculous? I didn’t know then what it meant to be punished, or to be haunted. I hadn’t enough imagination to know, not nearly enough. But some one or something’s seen to it that I shall know all about punishment and haunting. So I shall never be absurd about you again.”
After a pause she said:
“I wonder why you thought that about me?”
“I don’t know. It just came into my head.”
“Well, sit down and let us have our tea.”