"Iron in a velvet sheath," he had described her, and iron did not
bend--it broke.
After some consideration he approached the very unapproachable Manager.
"It's time you gave your leading _equestrienne_ a holiday," he
observed. "She's getting ill. If you don't let her have a rest soon
she'll be falling off in public, or having some fiasco. She was half
dead the other night after the performance."
The Manager made profane remarks in the dialect of Silesia, of which
place he was a native. He was fresh from quarrelling for the hundredth
time with Estelle, and was in the last frame of mind to desire rest or
peace for any inhabitant of the globe.
By himself and everyone else at the Hippodrome, Arithelli was
considered the property of the Anarchist, and Emile had taken very good
care to disabuse no one of the idea, but had rather been at some pains
to create such an impression.
For her it was the best protection, and kept her free from the insults
and attentions of other men.
Bouquets and jewellery he was willing that she should receive; they did
no harm and the latter could always be sold.
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