He pulled out his handkerchief.
“Leave it alone! I forbid you to touch it!”
She put the fragments of the photograph inside her dress, gently, tenderly even. Then she turned and faced him.
“To-morrow I shall telegraph to England for another photograph to be sent out, and it will stand here,” she said, pointing with her bleeding hand at the writing-table. “It will always stand on my table here and in the Villa Hafiz.”
Then she bound her own handkerchief about her hand and rang the bell. Sonia came.
“I’ve stupidly cut my hand, Sonia. Come and tie it up. Mr. Leith is going in a moment, and then you shall bathe it.”
Sonia looked at Dion, and, without a word, adjusted the handkerchief deftly, and pinned it in place with a safety-pin which she drew out of her dress. Then she left the room with her flat-footed walk. As she shut the door Dion said doggedly:
“You’d better let her bathe it now, because I’m not going in a moment.”
“When I ask you to go you will go.”
“Sit down. I must speak to you.”