He makes no rejoinder; only I hear him sigh, and put his hand with a quick, impatient movement to his head.
"You believe me ?" I ask, timidly, laying my hand on his arm.
"No, _I do not_!" he replies, shaking off my touch, and turning his stern and glittering eyes full upon me.

"I should be a _fool_ and an _idiot_ if I did!" Then he rises hastily and leaves me.

I watch him as he joins the other men.

They are _all_ round her now--all but Musgrave.
Algy has left his corner and his reversed picture-book, moved thereto by the unparalleled audacity of young Parker, who has pulled one of the sofa-cushions down on the floor, and is squatting on it, like a great toad at her feet, examining a gnat-bite on her sacred arm.
Even the old host is doing the agreeable according to his lights.

In a very loud voice he is narrating a long anecdote about a pretty girl that he once saw at a windmill near Seville, during the Peninsular.