Her mind was almost instantly made
up. She crossed the verandah and sat down in the low chair that was
always placed outside her French window. Androvsky followed her and
stood beside her. He did not say anything for a moment, nor did she.
Then he spoke with a sort of passionate attempt to sound careless and
indifferent.
"Monsieur Anteoni has gone, I suppose, Madame?"
"Yes, he has gone. I reached the garden safely, you see."
"Batouch came later. He was much ashamed when he found you had gone. I
believe he is afraid, and is hiding himself till your anger shall have
passed away."
She laughed.
"Batouch could not easily make me angry. I am not like you, Monsieur
Androvsky."
Her sudden challenge startled him, as she had meant it should. He moved
quickly, as at an unexpected touch.
"I, Madame?"
"Yes; I think you are very often angry. I think you are angry now."
His face was flooded with red.
"Why should I be angry?" he stammered, like a man completely taken
aback.
"How can I tell? But, as I came in just now, you looked at me as if you
wanted to punish me."
"I--I am afraid--it seems that my face says a great deal that--that--"
"Your lips would not choose to say.
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