A liquid softness entered her beautiful eyes, and with it a sparkle of the old Lentala—and of Beelo too.
“I am going to tell you a secret,” she went on. “You will keep it?—and you, Christopher? And you’ll not let Beelo know?”
We pledged ourselves. She removed her hand, looked down, and while busying herself with a readjustment of her girdle, said, very low:
“Beelo isn’t a boy.”
Her fingers stopped in her acute tension. I stood silent. With an effort she raised her eyes to mine, and hers betrayed a keen suspense.
“Beelo is a girl,” she added, as though I had not heard. “Her name is Beela.” She found my look coolly meeting hers.
“You liked Beelo the boy,” she groped on; “don’t you like Beela the girl?”
“I—I’m not acquainted with her,” I fumbled.
For a moment the Lentala of the feast returned in a look of mischievous amusement, followed by one of pretended sorrow. I was enjoying the fine play in her face..
“But don’t you see,” she asked, “that in knowing and liking the boy, you knew and liked the girl?”