“Now, listen, Yolara,” Larry interrupted almost plaintively. “No promise has passed from me to you⁠—and why would you hold me?” He passed unconsciously into English. “Be a good sport, Yolara,” he urged. “You have got a very devil of a temper, you know, and so have I; and we’d be really awfully uncomfortable together. And why don’t you get rid of that devilish pet of yours, and be good!”

She looked at him, puzzled, Marakinoff leaned over, translated to Lugur. The red dwarf smiled maliciously, drew near the priestess; whispered to her what was without doubt as near as he could come in the Murian to Larry’s own very colloquial phrases.

Yolara’s lips writhed.