She said nothing.
“Scheherazade,” he continued with smiling malice, “do you realise that you are both ornamental and young? Why so young and murderous, fair houri? Why delight in manslaughter in any degree? Why cultivate assault and battery? Why swipe the property of others?”
She closed her eyes on the pillow, but, as he remained silent, presently opened them again.
“I asked them not to hurt you,” she said irrelevantly. 191
“Who? Oh, your strenuous friends with the footpad technique? Well, they obeyed you unwillingly.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“Oh, no. But the car-wheels might have.”
“The car-wheels?”
“Yes. They were all for dumping me down the steps of the vestibule. But I’ve got a nasty disposition, Scheherazade, and I kicked and bit and screamed so lustily that I disgusted them and they simply left the train and concluded to cut my acquaintance.”
It was evident that his good-humoured mockery perplexed her. Once or twice the shadow of a smile passed over her dark eyes, but they remained uncertain and watchful.