Reluctance evidently battled in her with what might be pride. She did not wish to show reluctance. She took a straight chair near the table at a little distance from the fire and sat there with rather the air of an applicant for a post, willing, coldly and succinctly, to give information.
Bevis limped up and down the room.
“Why have you been working against me?” he said at last. He stopped before her. “Or, no; I don’t mean that. Of course you would work against me. You would have to. But why haven’t you been straight with me? Didn’t you owe it to me as much as to Tony to tell me what had happened?”
She looked back coldly at him. “I have not worked against you. I owe you nothing.”
“Not even when what happened concerned me so closely?”
“It was for Antonia to tell you anything that concerned you.” She paused and added, in a lower voice, “I should not choose to speak of some things to you.”
“I see.” He took a turn or two away. “Yes. After all, that’s natural. But now you see me defeated and cast out. So perhaps you’ll be merely merciful.” He stopped again and scrutinized her.
Yes; he had seen in her face yesterday what her hatred could be. It was—all defeated and cast out as he was—hatred for him he saw now, evident, palpable, like a sword. And why should she hate him so much? Had she anything to fear? Like Œdipus before the Sphinx, he studied her.
“You believe that you saw Malcolm the other night?” She had not told him that she would be merciful, yet, apparently, she was willing to give information, since she sat there.
Something more evidently baleful came into her eyes as she answered, “It is not a question of belief.”