My answer was a cold smile, in which I contrived to convey a threat. I knew how to frighten her.
She jumped up and rushed to the door and stood with her back against it—as an angry, over-teased child will do. "You shall not go. You mean to try and ruin me." I had known before that she was afraid of me; but she had never shown it so openly.
"Yes, I shall do my best." I spoke so calmly and looked her so firmly in the face that she was convinced of my earnestness.
"I didn't mean what I said," she declared.
"It is too late for that," I replied, with a sneer of obvious distrust and disbelief. She had very little courage and was a poor fighter. Her only weapon was her beauty; and it was useless of course against me.
Her eyes began to show a scared, hunted expression. "Don't go. Forgive me, Christabel. I didn't mean it. I swear I didn't. You angered me, and you know how impetuous I am."
"I am surprised you should plead thus to—a spy, Madame."
"But I tell you I didn't mean it. Christabel, dear Christabel, I know you are not a spy. Don't make so much of an angry word. Come, let us talk it over. Do, do"; and she put her arm in mine to lead me back to my chair.
I let her prevail with me, but with obvious reluctance. "Why are you so afraid of me?" I asked.
"I am not afraid of you; but I want you to stay and help me."