She followed him up to the studio, looking pale, but smiling bravely. He closed the door and leant against it. He was panting.
"What—on—earth," he said, "do you mean by this madness?"
Sylvia, seeing he was angry, took the hatpin out of her hat, and looked round for a place to sit down and quarrel comfortably.
There was no seat, except a thing that had once been red and once a sofa, but was now a skeleton, and looked so cold and bare that she instinctively took off her chinchilla fur cloak and covered it up. Then she said—
"Because—I—chose! I never can get a word with you at home, and I have a perfect right to come and talk to my future husband on a subject that concerns my whole happiness."
She had invented this speech coming along, being prepared for his anger.
"But what would people——"
"People! People! You live for people! Everything matters except me!"
He resolved on calmness.
"Sylvia, dear, since you are here," he said quietly, "let us talk reasonably."