Why were you so--horrible that night?"
"Was I horrible?"
"Probably not, but you seemed so to me," Tamara quoted his late words.
"I seem horrible--and you seem sweet."
"Surely the stupid comes in too!"
"Undoubtedly, but Russia will cure that, you will not go away for a
long time."
"In less than four weeks."
"We shall see," and the Prince got up and lit another cigarette. "You
do not smoke either? What a little good prude!"
"I am not a prude!" Tamara's ire rose again. "I have tried often with
my brother Tom, and it always makes me sick. I would be a fool, not a
prude, to go on, would not I?"
"I am not forcing you to smoke. I like your pretty teeth best as they
are!"
Rebellion shook Tamara. It was his attitude toward her--one of supreme
unconcerned command--as though he had a perfect right to take his
pleasure out of her conversation, and play upon her emotions, according
to his mood. She could have boxed his ears.
"How long ago is it since we danced in Egypt--a fortnight, or more? You
move well, but you don't know anything about dancing," he went on.
"Dancing is either a ridiculous jumping about of fools, who have no
more understanding of its meaning than a parcel of marionettes. Or it
is an expression of some sort of emotion. The Greeks understood that in
their Orchiesis, each feeling had its corresponding movement.
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