that I thinking to wonder why you alway running away from me now?”
“Run away from you! My dear little Mahâra!”—He approached the dusky beauty with a certain timidity as one might seek to caress a tiger-cat—“Surely you know”…
She struck down his hand with a sharp blow of her closed fan, darting at him a look from the brilliant eyes which was a living flame.
Resting one hand upon her hip, she stood with her right foot thrust forward from beneath the yellow robe and pivoting upon the heel of its little slipper. Her head tilted, she watched him through lowered lashes.
“It was not so with you in Moulmein,” she said, her silvery voice lowered caressingly. “Do you remember with me a night beside the Irawaddi?—where was that I wonder? Was it in Prome?—Perhaps, yes?…you threatened me to leap in, if…and I think to believe you!—I believing you!”
“Mahâra!” cried Gianapolis, and sought to seize her in his arms.
Again she struck down his hand with the little fan, watching him continuously and with no change of expression. But the smoldering fire in those eyes told of a greater flame which consumed her slender body and was potent enough to consume many a victim upon its altar. Gianapolis’ yellow skin assumed a faintly mottled appearance.
