Whether Marya herself knew exactly what she meant seemed not to be entirely clear to her. For, when Mr. Puma, dressed in a travelling suit and carrying a satchel, arrived at her apartment in the Hotel Rajah, and entered the reception room with his soundless, springy step, she came out of her bedroom partly dressed, and still hooking her waist.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded contemptuously, 331 looking him over from, head to foot. “Did you really suppose I meant to go to Mexico with you?”
His heavy features crimsoned: “What pleasantry is this, my Marya?–––” he began; but the green blaze in her slanting eyes silenced him.
“The difference,” she said, “between us is this. You run from those who threaten you. I kill them.”
“Of––of what nonsense are you speaking!” he stammered. “All is arranged that we shall go at eleven–––”
“No,” she said wearily, “one sometimes plays with stray animals for a few moments––and that is all. And that is all I ever saw in you, Angelo––a stray beast to amuse and entertain me between two yawns and a cup of tea.” She shrugged, still twisted lithely in her struggle to hook her waist. “You may go,” she added, not even looking at him, “or, if you are not too cowardly, you may come with me to the Red Flag Club.”
“In God’s name what do you mean–––”
“Mean? I mean to take my pistol to the Red Flag Club and kill some Bolsheviki. That is what I mean, my Angelo––my ruddy Eurasian pig!”
She slipped in the last hook, turned and enveloped him again with an insolent, slanting glance: “Allons! Do you come to the Red Flag?”