“Tell me all you can.”
“I wish I were dead!” sobbed Hilda, “I am so unhappy.”
Peter did not trust himself to speak; he took her hand and held it to his lips.
“Yes; you care,” said Hilda. She drew herself up and wiped her eyes. “I never thought he would be unpleasant. At times I fancied that he came a good deal into the studio where we worked and, behind his sister’s back, looked silly. But he never really annoyed me. I thought myself unkindly suspicious. To-day Mademoiselle Lebon was called away and he came in. I went on painting. I did not dream—! When, suddenly he put his arms around me—and tried to kiss me!” Hilda gave an hysterical laugh. “Do you know, I had my palette on my hand, and I gave him a great blow with it! You should have seen his head! Oh, to think that I can find that funny now! His ear was covered with cobalt!” Hilda sobbed again, even while she laughed. “He was very angry and horrible. I said I would call his mother and sister if he did not leave me at once, and then—and then”—Hilda dropped her face into her hands—“he jeered at me; ‘You mustn’t play the prude,’ he said.”
Odd clenched his teeth.
“Hilda, dear,” he said, in a voice cold to severity, “you must go home; I will put you in a cab. I will come to you as soon as I have punished that dog.”
“Peter, don’t! I beg of you to come with me. You can do nothing. I must bury it, forget it.” She had risen as he rose.
“Yes, bury it, forget it, Hilda. He, at least, shall never forget it.”
Odd’s fixed look as he led her into the street forced her to helpless silence.
“Peter, please!” she breathed, clasping her hands together and gazing at him as he hailed a fiacre.