She drew away instantly and pointed to a chair. He
refused to sit down; his pride seemed hurt.
Then he gave the girl an intense look, and she drew nearer.
"Oh, Arpad Vihary," she began.
He interrupted. "You do not love me now. Why? You told me you loved me,
in the park, yesterday. I am a poor artist, that is the reason."
This speech he uttered glibly, and, despite the extraordinary
pronunciation, she understood it. She took his long hand, the fingers
amazed her. He bent them back until they touched his wrist, and was
proud of their flexibility. He walked to the dining-table and tossed its
cover-cloth on a chair. Upon his two thumbs he went around it like an
acrobat. "Shall I hold you out with one arm?" he softly asked. Lora was
vastly amused; this was indeed a courtship out of the ordinary--it
pleased her exotic taste.
"Hungarian gypsies are very strong, are they not?" she innocently asked.
"I am not gypsy nor am I Hungarian; I am an East Indian. My family is
royal. We are of the Rajpoot tribes called Ranas. My father once ruled
Roorbunder.
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