She glided sinuously toward him, still with one hand resting upon her hip, stood almost touching his shoulder and raised her beautiful wicked face to his, peering at him through half-closed eyes, and resting the hand which grasped the fan lightly upon his arm.
“You think I do not see? You think I do not watch?”—softer and softer grew the silvery voice—“at Olaf van Noord’s studio you think I do not hear? Perhaps you not thinking to care if I see and hear—for it seem you not seeing nor hearing me. I watch and I see. Is it her so soft brown hair? That color of hair is so more prettier than ugly black! Is it her English eyes? Eyes that born in the dark forests of Burma so hideous and so like the eyes of the apes! Is it her white skin and her red cheeks? A brown skin—though someone, there was, that say it is satin of heaven—is so tiresome; when no more it is a new toy it does not interest”…
“Really,” muttered Gianapolis, uneasily, “I think you must be mad! I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Liar!”
One lithe step forward the Eurasian sprang, and, at the word, brought down the fan with all her strength across Gianapolis’ eyes!
He staggered away from her, uttering a hoarse cry and instinctively raising his arms to guard himself from further attack; but the girl stood poised again, her hand upon her hip; and swinging her right
