"Isn't it funny?" he remarked. "My brother has always been like that, but believe me, Padrona, I could not blush to save my life."
"Si, si," laughed Carmelita. "You have sinned and he has blushed—all your lives, is it not so—le pauvre petit?" and saucily rubbed the side of Mikhail's crimson face with the backs of her fingers—and looked unwontedly thoughtful as he jerked his head away with a look of annoyance.
"La, la, la!" said Carmelita. "Musn't he be teased then? …"
"Come, Signora," broke in Feodor again, "you're making him blush worse than ever. Such kindness is absolutely wasted. Now I …"
"No, you wouldn't blush with shame and fright, no, nor yet with innocence, would you, Signor Feodor? E un peccato!" replied the girl, and lightly brushed his cheek as she spoke.
The good Feodor did not blush, but the look of thoughtfulness deepened on Carmelita's face.
To the finer perceptions of John Bull there seemed to be something strained and discomfortable in the atmosphere. Carmelita had fallen silent, Feodor seemed annoyed and anxious, Mikhail frightened and anxious, and Mr. 'Erb 'Iggins of too gibing a humour.
"You are making me positively jealous, Signora Carmelita, and leaving me thirsty," he said, and with a small repentant squeal Carmelita flitted to the bar.
"Would you like a biscuit too, Signor Jean Boule?" she called, and tossed one across to him as she spoke. John Bull neatly caught the biscuit as it flew somewhat wide. Carmelita, like most women, could not throw straight.
