He indicated a sheltered seat behind some great aloes, and led her thither. Minna commanded him to amuse her.
“I am too much in love.”
“Then tell me the history of your last grand passion.”
“I have only had one in my life.”
He began to plead. Somehow the charm of enticing him had palled. He was such a vulgar little creature. She had heard all he had to say scores of times. She craved originality. The sublime conceit of the man, who was growing earnestly amorous, moved her disdain. Unscrupulous and conscious of degradation as she was, she nevertheless set a great value on herself. So she found entertainment in scathing ridicule. At last he lost his temper, threw his arms roughly round her and kissed her. She struggled from him, revolted, and struck him with all her might in the face. The brutality of the debased Gaul was aroused. The crimson mark flared across a livid cheek. Mad with rage he seized her wrists.
“Hallo!” said a sudden voice. “Drop that!”
A great, huge-limbed Englishman, dressed in loose tweeds and a discoloured straw hat, stood before them. Boissy rose to his feet and struck an attitude. “Monsieur—” he began.
But the new-comer took no notice of him. Instead, he looked with an air of startled recognition at Minna, and then lifted his hat.
“Miss Hart, I believe.”
The surprise was great. She regarded him for some moments rather bewildered. He seemed to have dropped from the sky.