She turned, recognizing him without surprise—her voice and manner had both become much gentler since she had so abruptly quitted him in Algiers. "Mr. Ogle? I supposed you were here."
"You did? Why?"
"I met that French boy, young Momoro—isn't that his name?—in a corridor of the hotel an hour or so ago. I supposed his mother must be with him, and so probably you'd be here too."
"But why should you"
She laughed amiably. "Because of the 'Duumvir'—when you danced with me, because you were looking for her. Never mind! I'd admired your taste, and I'm glad you have it, because now it gives me another chance to apologize to you. Compared to me, you've been a Bayard! You see I knew all along, underneath, that I was misbehaving; and lately, even when I've wanted to stop it, I haven't been able to entirely. I went on acting like a surly idiot for a while when I was really all right inside, and just out of habit I'm still peckish with my mother and father sometimes, though I curse myself for it. But I don't think I'd ever be that way with you again. You've been on my mind, Mr. Ogle. I made a vow about you."
