“I’m not taking any,” he replied.
I put his answer as pleasantly as I could. It seemed to me a little ungracious to decline an invitation of that sort, and I ascribed his refusal to lack of money.
“But I like him,” she said. “Tell him it’s for love.”
When I translated this, Strickland shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“Tell her to go to hell,” he said.
His manner made his answer quite plain, and the girl threw back her head with a sudden gesture. Perhaps she reddened under her paint. She rose to her feet.
“Monsieur n’est pas poli,” she said.
She walked out of the inn. I was slightly vexed.
“There wasn’t any need to insult her that I can see,” I said. “After all, it was rather a compliment she was paying you.”
“That sort of thing makes me sick,” he said roughly.