"It—it's storming still, isn't it?" said Elizabeth, and then remembered that she had asked the same question already. Gerard started up and reflecting gloomily that it was of no use to try to "stay that fellow out," he took his leave. Paul and Elizabeth were left alone.
His presence seemed a matter of absolute indifference to Elizabeth, who sank again into the low chair by the fire, and picking up the book she had laid down, turned over its pages with an air of icy unconcern. He came and stood beside her, leaning against the mantel-piece, a look of brutality on his handsome face.
"So," he said. "I've driven Gerard away. A case of 'two is company,' evidently."
Her expression did not change. "Oh, he had been here some time," she said, coldly. "No doubt he meant to leave in any case."
"Oh, no doubt." He sneered angrily. "Do you know what I heard to-day?" he went on. "I heard that you were engaged to him."
She flushed a little. "Did you?" she said, and then, quietly: "But that means nothing, you know."
"But you are together all the time. I can't come to the house without meeting him. You encourage him, accept his flowers, lead him on.—Pray, how long is this sort of thing going to last?"
They eyed each other for a moment, he flushed with anger, she cold and hard. "You have no right," she said, icily, "to ask an account of my actions."
"No right!" he repeated, as if thunder-struck. "I should like to know who has a better."
"No right that I acknowledge, at least," she amended her first sentence.