“I have what I require,” she answered dryly.
“Then good-bye, Pearl of the Harem! Without rancour, I offer you the hand that reluctantly chastened you.”
They remained facing each other in silence for a moment; his expression was mischievously amused; hers inscrutable. Then, as he patiently and good-humouredly continued to offer her his hand, very slowly she laid her own in it, still looking him directly in the eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice.
“For what? For not shooting me?”
“I’m sorry for you, Mr. Neeland.... You’re only a boy, after all. You know nothing. And you refuse to learn.... I’m sorry.... Good-bye.”
“Could I take you anywhere? To the Hotel Orange? I’ve time. The station is across the street.”
“No,” she said.
She walked leisurely along the poorly lighted street and turned the first corner as though at hazard. The next moment her trim and graceful figure had disappeared.
With his heart still gay from the night’s excitement, and the drop of Irish blood in him lively as champagne, he crossed the square briskly, entered the stuffy station, bought a ticket, and went out to the wooden platform beside the rails.