“Brachycephalic,” I murmured unwillingly.
“That’s it. I thought that was what you said.”
“Did I? It was a slip of the tongue. I meant dolichocephalic,” I said with all the assurance I could muster.
Suzanne looked at me searchingly. Then she laughed.
“You lie very well, gipsy girl. But it will save time and trouble now if you tell me all about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I said unwillingly.
“Isn’t there?” said Suzanne gently.
“I suppose I shall have to tell you,” I said slowly. “I’m not ashamed of it. You can’t be ashamed of something that just—happens to you. That’s what he did. He was detestable—rude and ungrateful—but that I think I understand. It’s like a dog that’s been chained up—or badly treated—it’ll bite anybody. That’s what he was like—bitter and snarling. I don’t know why I care—but I do. I care horribly. Just seeing him has turned my whole life upside down. I love him. I want him. I’ll walk all over Africa barefoot till I find him, and I’ll make him care for me. I’d die for him. I’d work for him, slave for him, steal for him, even beg or borrow for him! There—now you know!”
Suzanne looked at me for a long time.
“You’re very un-English, gipsy girl,” she said at last. “There’s not a scrap of the sentimental about you. I’ve never met anyone who was at once so practical and so passionate. I shall never care for anyone like that—mercifully for me—and yet—and yet I envy you, gipsy girl. It’s something to be able to care. Most people can’t. But what a mercy for your little doctor man that you didn’t marry him. He doesn’t sound at