And, relying on the compliment to cover his retreat, he was slinking away, crestfallen; but Felicia fiercely called him back:
"Stay, you. I have something to say to you."
He saw by her expression that he must comply, under pain of an outbreak.
"With your permission, my friend? Mademoiselle has a word to say to me. My coupé is at the door. Get in, I will be with you in a moment."
When the studio door closed upon those heavy departing footsteps, they looked each other in the face.
"You must be either drunk or mad to venture to do such a thing. What! you presume to enter my studio when I do not choose to receive? Why this violence? By what right?"
"By the right that desperate, unconquerable passion gives."
"Be quiet, Jenkins; those are words that I do not wish to hear. I let you come here through pity, through habit, because my father was fond of you. But never speak to me again of your—love"—she said the word very low, as if it were a disgrace—"or you will see me no more, even though I should be driven to die in order to escape you for good and all."
A child taken in fault does not bend his head more humbly than Jenkins as he replied:
"True—I was wrong. A moment of madness, of blindness. But why do you take pleasure in tearing my heart as you do?"