Domini suddenly felt that to take his view of the matter, exaggerated though it was, would be the kindest course, even the most delicate.
“You were rude to me,” she said, “but I shall forget it from this moment.”
She held out her hand. He grasped it, and again she felt as if a furnace were pouring its fiery heat upon her.
“Good-night.”
“Good-night, Madame. Thank you.”
She was going away to the hotel door, but she stopped.
“My name is Domini Enfilden,” she said in English.
The man stood in the road looking at her. She waited. She expected him to tell her his name. There was a silence. At last he said hesitatingly, in English with a very slight foreign accent:
“My name is Boris—Boris Androvsky.”
“Batouch told me you were English,” she said.