"I suppose so. Why not?"
"Oh!" she said petulantly. "You remind me of Oliver Cromwell—somebody of that kind—you ought to have lived in Puritan days. It's England—England—England in you shrivelling you up. I'm sure in all Algiers there isn't one person (not English) who thinks as you do. But if you were to travel, if you were to give yourself a chance, how different you'd be!"
"Charmian, you impertinent child!" said Mrs. Mansfield, smiling, but in a voice that was rather sad.
"It's the Channel! It's the Channel! I'm not myself to-night!"
Heath laughed and said something light and gay. But as he went out of the room his face looked troubled.
As soon as he had gone, Charmian got up and turned to her mother.
"Are you very angry with me, Madre?"
"No. There always was a touch of the minx in you, and I suppose it is ineradicable. What have you been doing to your face?"
Charmian flushed. The blood even went up to her forehead, and for once she looked confused, almost ashamed.
"My face? You—you have noticed something?"