Perfect. More perfect than ours. I want it. Give Palace and
Garden of Eternal Summer for it. Two thousand work-slaves and fifty----"
"And I'll see you damned first, sir, whoever you are!" said Redgrave,
clapping his hand on to the butt of his revolver, and forgetting for the
moment that he was speaking in another world than his own. "What the
devil do you mean, sir, by insulting my wife----?"
"Insulting. Wife. What is that? We have no words like those."
"But you speak English," exclaimed Zaidie, going a little nearer to him,
but still keeping the muzzle of her revolver pointing up to his hairless
head. "No, Lenox, don't be afraid about me, and don't get angry. Can't
you see that this person hasn't got any temper? I suppose it was
civilised out of his ancestors ages ago. He doesn't know what a wife or
an insult is. He just looks upon me as a desirable piece of property to
be bought, and I daresay he offered you a very handsome price. Now,
don't look so savage, because you know bargains like that have been made
even on our dear old virtuous Mother Earth. For instance, if you hadn't
met us in the middle of the Atlantic----"
"That'll do, Zaidie," Redgrave interrupted almost roughly. "That's not
exactly the question, but I see what you mean, and it was a bit silly of
me to get angry."
"Silly? Angry? What do those words mean?" said the Martian in his slow,
passionless, mechanical voice.
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