"Mr. Repellier, I must beg of you not to play these practical jokes on me. They are stupid, and besides, my nerves are not of the strongest. The next thing, and you'll be declaring I have some rhetorical alter ego manufacturing my manuscripts for me!" Cordelia laughed again.
Repellier's eyes were not pleasant to look into as he gazed down at the woman in the chair. She once more moved farther back out of the glare of the lowering sun that still streamed irritatingly in through the window. She opened her lips as though to speak, but remained silent. She was thinking both hard and fast.
"This is far from a joke, Miss Vaughan. I repeat that you did not write The Silver Poppy."
"Then—then why does it bear my name?" It seemed a fair enough question.
"Because you stole it!" he thundered at her.
"Mr. Repellier!" She drew herself up, flaming, flashing at him unspeakable indignation.
"You—you are a coward!" she cried, as a gush of tears came to her eyes.
"Then I am mistaken?" he asked, icily, but more quietly.
"It is all too ridiculous," she said brokenly, over her handkerchief. "You are more than mistaken. But I should like to know whether you mean this for a joke, or an insult!"
"And on your word of honor as a woman, The Silver Poppy is your rightful property?"