“By the Virgin, you’re lost!” I cried.
I was about to turn away on my heel, but he drew me back. His anger had been appeased.
“Don’t mind me,” he said in his tractable, normal tone. “But don’t join the herd of fools who won’t understand. I looked for sympathy and comprehension from you. You can’t judge till you know her—till you know this wonderful—most wonderful woman.”
“I daresay,” I assented dryly. “Who, however, and what is she?”
“She is half Russian, half German, and wholly a citizen of the world.”
“Ah! I know the type—”
“You know nothing!” he exclaimed, flushing angrily. “But”—he shrugged his shoulders—“the prejudices of the world count for—what? Nothing at all. The curse of the Philistine is his Philistinism.”
“Very well. Forget what I have said. I approach the Russo-German in the properly reverential spirit to apprehend the phenomena. They say she is young and pretty. And what, especially, does she do?”
“You may see, some day.” His gaze grew bright, soft, and vague, as one who catches a glimpse of the floating garments of supernatural mysteries. “Ah! she is wonderful. She is charming!”