"I'm not Irish--do I look Irish?" she asked quietly, though her heart was
beating unevenly.
"You look more Irish than anything else, except, maybe, Slav or
Hungarian--or Gipsy," he said admiringly and unwittingly.
"I have Gipsy blood in me," she answered slowly, "but no Irish or
Hungarian blood."
"Gipsy--is that so?" he said spontaneously, as she watched him so
intently that the pulses throbbed at her temples.
A short time ago Fleda might have announced her origin defiantly, now her
courage failed her. She did not wish him to be prejudiced against her.
"Well, well," he added, "I only just guessed at it, because there's
something unusual and strong in you, not because your eyes are so dark
and your hair so brown."
"Not because of my 'wild beauty'--I thought you were going to say that,"
she added ironically and a little defiantly. "I got some verses by post
the other day from one of your friends in Lebanon--a stock-rider I think
he was, and they said I had a 'wild beauty' and a 'savage sweetness.'"
He laughed, yet he suddenly saw her sensitive vigilance, and by instinct
he felt that she was watching for some sign of shock or disdain on his
part; yet in truth he cared no more whether she had Gipsy blood in her
than he would have done if she had said she was a daughter of the Czar.
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