Sophy hated being called "poetess." That Morris should call her "poetess" seemed the last touch of irony. She stood looking at him gently.
"I haven't got a 'wigging' in store for you," she said. "Why are you angry?"
"Why are you angry?... But, there, that's poppycock—my asking that. I know devilish well why you're angry. It's because I danced that Alcibiades thing.... Well—you told me to, didn't you?"
Sophy hesitated. Then she said frankly:
"It's true I didn't like it, Morris. But that oughtn't to vex you." Her voice trembled suddenly. "When a woman loves a man as I love you—she can't bear to ... to see him ... like that."
"Make a fool of himself, you mean?"
Sophy went close and put her hand on his breast.
"Morris...." she said, "are you trying to quarrel ... with me, dear?"
Her tone was lovely as she said this. "He's so young ... so young...." she was telling herself.
But Loring's overstrung mood sensed this maternal indulgence, and it infuriated him still further.