She turned, blue eyes wide with protest in her white face. "Do you wish
me to see her, my lord? That--woman!"
He frowned upon her suddenly. "Call me Charles! Do you hear? We will play
this game according to rule--or not at all."
"You are angry," Toby said, and turned still whiter.
He came to her, thrust a quick arm about her. "I am not angry,
_mignonne_, at least not with you. But you must take your proper place. I
can't keep you in hiding here. Those gaping fools downstairs--they have
got to understand. You are not my latest whim, but a permanent
institution. You are--my wife."
She shivered in his hold, but she clung to him. "I don't feel like--a
permanent institution," she told him rather piteously. "And when you are
angry--"
"I am not angry," said Saltash, and tweaked her ear as though she had
been a boy. "But--whether you feel like it or not--you are my wife, and
you have got to play the part. _C'est entendu, n'est-ce-pas?_"
"Whatever you wish," said Toby faintly.
He set her free. "You must look your best tonight. Wear blue! It is your
colour. I shall present Spentoli to you. And tomorrow he will want to
paint you."
Toby stiffened. "That--_canaille_!" she said.
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