Perior at her side gave a short laugh, a cruel laugh. The moment was horrid; let it be hurried on, and Mr. Rodrigg, tool of the avenging gods, hurried out.
“Have you anything to say, Mr. Rodrigg?” she asked, conscious of hating Mr. Rodrigg, and, even at that moment, of a shoot of emphasized irritation with his nose, which caught the firelight bluntly.
“May I ask you, Miss Paton, if during these past weeks, you have always had that intention?” he inquired, speaking with some thickness of utterance.
“No, Mr. Rodrigg, you may not ask me that,” she returned.
The revelation of the man’s hopes was no longer to be evaded; she drank down the bitter draught perforce, her eyes on that squarely luminous nose-tip.
During the pause that followed Mr. Rodrigg’s eyes travelled up and down her with mingled scorn, wrath, and humiliation.
“Allow me to congratulate you,” he said at last, most venomously, “and to take my leave of you, Miss Paton. I have not understood, I perceive, the part I was supposed to play here.”
And Camelia was left alone with Perior. With an impression as of strong boxings on the ears she could only cry out “Odious vulgarian!” She tingled all over with a sense of insult.
“I, too, will bid you good-evening, Camelia,” said Perior. He could have taken her by the throat, but in the necessary restraint of that desire his glance, only, seized her as if it would throttle her.
“No! no!” she caught his arm, all thought of Mr. Rodrigg and his slaps burnt from her. “Listen to me—you don’t understand! Wait! I can explain everything! everything—so that you must forgive me!”