Did he imagine for a single instant that she would have come to London with him save on the understanding that she was to be married immediately upon arrival? This attitude of an indignant question was not to be reconciled with her belief that his excuses for himself were truthful. But she did not remark the discrepancy.
Her sarcasm wounded his vanity.
“Oh, very well!” he muttered. “If you don’t choose to believe what I say!” He shrugged his shoulders.
She said nothing; but the sobs swept at intervals through her frame, shaking it.
Reading hesitation in her face, he tried again. “Come along, little girl. And wipe your eyes.” And he approached her. She stepped back.
“No, no!” she denied him, passionately. He had esteemed her too cheaply. And she did not care to be called ‘little girl.’
“Then what shall you do?” he inquired, in a tone which blended mockery and bullying. She was making a fool of him.
“I can tell you what I shan’t do,” she said. “I shan’t go to Paris.” Her sobs were less frequent.
“That’s not my question,” he said icily. “I want to know what you will do.”
There was now no pretence of affectionateness either on her part or on his. They might, to judge from their attitudes, have been nourished from infancy on mutual hatred.