"She is quite beautiful, but--"
He spoke in a dreamy abstracted tone, as if addressing the pot-hooks.
Tamsin started, set down the pan with a clatter, and turned sharply
round.
"Eh?" said Mr. Fogo, aroused by the clatter, "you were saying--?"
And then it struck him that he had spoken aloud. He broke off, and
looked up with appealing helplessness.
There was a second's pause.
"_You_ were saying--"
The words came as if dragged from her by an effort. Her eyes were
full of wrath as she stood above him and waited for his reply.
"I am very sorry," he stammered; "I never meant you to hear."
"You were talking of--?"
"Of you," he answered simply. He was horribly frightened; but it was
not in the man's nature to lie, or even evade the question.
The straightforwardness of the reply seemed to buffet her in the
face. She put up a hand against the chimney-piece and caught her
breath.
"What is 'but'?" she asked with a kind of breathless vehemence.
"Finish your sentence. What right have you to talk of me?" she went
on, as he did not reply. "If I am not a lady, what is that to you?
Oh!" she persisted, in answer to the swift remonstrance on his face,
"I can end your sentence: 'She is quite beautiful, but--quite _low_,
of course.' What right have you to call me either--to speak of me at
all? We were content enough before you came--Peter and Paul and I.
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