"It does not matter to me in the least whether you believe it or not,"
I returned frigidly.
Dicky jumped up with an oath. "I know it doesn't matter to you. Nothing is of any consequence to you but this"—he ripped out an offensive epithet. "If he is so near and dear to you, it's a wonder you don't want to go over and bid him a fond farewell."
I was fighting to keep back the tears. As soon as I could control my voice I spoke slowly:
"The reason why I did not go is because I thought you might not like it. God knows, I wanted to go."
I walked steadily to my room, closed the door and locked it and fell upon the bed, a sobbing heap.
"Where are you going?" Dicky's voice was fairly a snarl as I faced him a little later in my street costume.
"I do not know," I replied truthfully and coldly. "I am going out for the rest of the afternoon. Perhaps you will be able to control yourself when I return."
It was not the most tactful speech in the world. But I was past caring whether Dicky were angry or pleased. I am not very quick to wrath, but when it is once roused my anger is intense.
"You know you are lying," he said loudly. "You are going to see this precious-cousin-brother-lover, whichever he may be."
My fear that Katie or his mother would hear him overcame the primitive impulse I had to avenge the insolent words with a blow, as a man would.