Pidge stared at her a second in surprise.
“There can’t be any sense to it, can there?” she said slowly.
The other regarded her with a calm that irritated Pidge just now. Everything irritated her, Dicky sitting by, Miss Claes’ familiarity with Subramini, and the look of knowing and not speaking, back of the smile on Miss Claes’ lips. But most of all, peculiarly at this moment, arose in Pidge’s mind the two conflicting stories of nationality.
“Did I hear you wrongly that you said you were English, Miss Claes?” she asked abruptly.
“No, dear.”
“But Dicky said you told him you were Hindu——”
“I did. I am both. I am half-caste, supposed to unite in myself the worst of English and Indian.”
Pidge burned with contrition, less at her questioning than at the bad temper that prompted it. The two women were ready to go, but Dicky wasn’t.
“You seemed to have something to say, Miss Claes, to set us—to set me straight on all this,” he began.
“You see, Richard, one cannot speak without being drawn in. I hesitated on that account.”