I was walking up and down now in a state of some excitement. My brain was fired with the thought of stealing a march on Constantine through the discovery of his own family secret.
Suddenly Euphrosyne gave a little soft clap with her hands. It was over in a minute, and she sat blushing, confused, trying to look as if she had not done it at all.
"What did you do that for?" I asked, stopping in front of her.
"Nothing," said Euphrosyne.
"Oh, I don't believe that," said I.
She looked at me. "I didn't mean to do it," she said again. "But can't you guess why?"
"There's too much guessing to be done here," said I, impatiently; and I started walking again. But presently I heard a voice say softly, and in a tone that seemed to address nobody in particular—me least of all:
"We Neopalians like a man who can be angry, and I began to think you never would."
"I am not the least angry," said I, with great indignation. I hate being told that I am angry when I am merely showing firmness.
Now, at this protest of mine Euphrosyne saw fit to laugh—the most hearty laugh she had given since I had known her. The mirthfulness of it undermined my wrath. I stood still opposite her, biting the end of my mustache.