"Go," she murmured; "you can do no good by staying."
He made a faint show of standing his ground, then with a contemptuous shrug went out through the garden doors.
Roger took three strides after him and closed the doors, bolting them quietly. When he turned he saw a change in his stepmother. Her eyes regarded him with a Medusa-like stare; a spot of dull red smouldered in each cheek. Her lips seemed suddenly thin, were working slightly. He knew that her anger was even greater than his own, though she might express it in a different way.
"And now perhaps you will explain what you mean by coming into my salon and ordering my friends to leave my house?"
Her tone burnt like vitriol. All the suppressed hatred of six years had compressed itself into that single sentence. He paused, eyeing her curiously, and choosing his words with a certain care, trying not to let his anger run away with him.
"See here, Thérèse," he said at last, "I don't intend to discuss the matter of my right to do anything in this house. I am simply going to tell you something. It makes no difference to me what lovers you have, it is not my affair, so long as you conduct your liaisons with discretion. But while my father is ill and I am here to protect his interests, I shall make it my business to see that this sort of thing doesn't happen under his roof."
"Ah, indeed!" she exclaimed with a touch of bitter contempt.
"You know as well as I that anyone might have come in that door just now—my aunt, the nurse, one of the servants. You may not care yourself, but you've got to have respect for my father."
Her breath came hard, the spots of red throbbed like wounds, while all the time her eyes remained glued to his face with a stare of fascination. He thought she seemed torn between rage and a reluctant fear.
"Now listen to me: I shall not say it again. From now on Arthur Holliday is not to come inside this place until my father is well again. Is that quite clear?"