He took the smudged hand--took it with a hand that trembled--and bent his smudged face so close to it that she must have felt his breath beating on it, hot and quick. He made two dabs with the end of the towel. Chitta, whom they had both sadly neglected, pounced upon them from her lair among the shadows. She seized the hand and, jabbering fifty words in the time for two, pushed Cartaret from his work. "I'm not going to hurt anybody," said Cartaret. "Do, please, get away." The Girl laughed. "Chitta trusts no foreigners," she explained. She spoke to Chitta, but Chitta, glowering at Cartaret, shook her head and grumbled. "I do not any more desire to order her about," said The Girl to Cartaret. "Already this evening I have wounded her feelings, I fear. She says she will allow none but herself to minister to me. You, sir, will forgive her? After all, it is her duty." Cartaret inwardly cursed Chitta's fidelity. What he said was: "Of course." He knew that just here he might say something gallant, and that he would think of that something an hour hence; but he could not think of it now. The Girl touched the turpentine bottle. "And may we take it to our room?" "Eh? Oh, certainly," said Cartaret. She held out her hand, the palm lowered. "Good-night," she said. Cartaret's heart bounded: this time she had not said "Good-by." He seized the hand. Chitta growled, and he released it with a conventional handshake. The Girl smiled. "Ah, yes," she said; "this afternoon it puzzled me, but now I recollect: you Americans, sir, shake one's hand, do you not?" She was gone, and glowering Chitta with her, before he could answer. Cartaret stood where she had left him, his brows knitted. He heard Chitta double-lock the door to their rooms. He was thinking thoughts that his brain was not accustomed to. It was some time before they became more familiar. Then he gasped: "I wonder if my face is dirty!" He took the lamp and sought the sole mirror that his room boasted. His face was dirty. "Damn!" said Cartaret. Down in the narrow street, an uncertain chorus was singing: "There's nothing, friend, 'twixt you and me Except the best of company. (There's just one bock 'twixt you and me, and I'll catch up full soon!) What woman's lips compare to this: This sturdy seidel's frothy kiss----" His guests were coming to seek him. They had remembered him at last. Cartaret's mind, however, was busy with other matters. He had not thought of the gallant thing that he might have said to The Girl, but he had thought of something equally surprising. "Gee whiz!" he cried. "I understand now--it's probably the custom of her country: she expected me to kiss her hand. Kiss her hand--and I missed the chance!" CHAPTER VI CARTARET SETS UP HOUSEKEEPING Que de femmes il y a dans une femme! Et c'est bien heureux.--Dumas, Fils: _La Dame Aux Perles_.