“Never mind,” she said, almost brutally in her vexation at what she had done.
“Batouch!”
The poet was about to spring upon the horse when Androvsky caught him by the arm.
“I will go,” he said.
Batouch looked vicious. “But Monsieur told me he did not——”
He stopped. The hand on his arm had given him a wrench that made him feel as if his flesh were caught between steel pincers. Androvsky came up to the chestnut.
“Oh, it’s an Arab saddle,” said Domini.
“It does not matter, Madame.”
His face was stern.
“Are you accustomed to them?”