He cringed at her tone. “Not enjoy—without you—”
“No,” she said coolly, “for I shall kill you.”
Mr Pick smiled uncomfortably. “That would please the American,” he said, trying to jest, but his hand trembled as he touched the stem of his cigar-holder to shake off the ashes.
A sudden thought leaped into her face. “Why not please—me—instead?” she whispered.
Their eyes met. Her face was hard and bold—his, cowardly and ghastly. She clenched her hands and leaned forward; her voice was scarcely audible. Mr Pick dropped his oily black head and listened.
“He turned me out of his box at the Opera; he struck you—do you hear? he kicked you!”
The Jew’s face grew chalky.
“Today he stands between you and your uncle, you and wealth, you and me! Do you understand? Cowards are stupid. You claim Spanish blood. But Spanish blood does not forget insults. Is yours only the blood of a Spanish Jew? Bah! Must I talk? You saw him? He is here. Alive. And he kicked you. And he stands between you and riches, you and me, you and—life!”
They sat silent, she holding him fascinated with her little black eyes. His jaw fallen, the expression of his loose mouth was horrible. Suddenly she thrust her face close to his. Her eyes burned and the blood surged through the distended veins under the cracking rouge. Her lips formed the word, “Tonight!”
Without a word he crept from his seat and followed her out of the room by a side door.