I do
not know who was responsible for Miss Latouche's get-up, or if she
really required an extra wrap. At any rate, the combination of colours
was very effective.
Whilst I was speculating vaguely on the probable character of this
striking young lady, she slowly rose from her low seat and crossed the
room. Her eyes were wide open, but apparently fixed on space, and she
moved with the slow, mechanical motion of a sleepwalker. To my intense
surprise she came straight towards me, and stood in an expectant
attitude about a yard from where I was sitting. Not knowing exactly how
to receive this advance, I jumped up and offered her my chair. She waved
it aside with a gesture of imperial scorn. Her dark eyes positively
flashed fire, and a rich glow flushed her pale olive cheek. I could see
that I had deeply offended her.
"I must apologise," I began nervously, "but I thought you might be
tired."
Before the words were fairly spoken, I realised the full imbecility of
this remark. My only excuse for making such a fatuous observation was
that the near vicinity of this weird beauty had paralysed my reasoning
faculties, so that I hardly knew what I was saying. And then she spoke
in a low, rich voice which thrilled me through every nerve. I could not
understand the meaning of her words, or even recognise the language in
which they were spoken.
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