“I have been longing for a little compliment for a week.”
“Why, I saw you the day before yesterday.”
“Cela n’empeche pas.”
“Did I behave badly to you?”
“No—but I might just as well have been selling you postage-stamps behind a counter.”
“Forgive me. But, you see, we met in the street.”
“You were ashamed of being seen with me, I suppose.”
“Minna!” he exclaimed, flushing into quick earnest.
She laughed softly. “I thought I should get something genuine out of you—you walked into the trap beautifully. Do you like my new tea-gown? I had it made because you admired one something like it in a shop window.”
She rose and stood before him. She was undeniably beautiful, with warm, southern beauty. From her mother, long since dead, whom chance had brought from Smyrna to the tender keeping of Israel Hart and the fogs of London, she inherited the languor of expression that was her charm. Yet her features, more mutinous than regular, bore little or no trace of the Jewess—none, save that almost imperceptible, strange contour of flesh beneath the eyes, from cheekbone to cheekbone, which is the eternal mark of her race. The soft crepon of the garment clung to her figure, showing its young and supple curves. Its pale yellow shade heightened the richness of her colouring.