“As bad as ever you can be!” he repeated, with remarkable fluctuations of countenance, and half under his breath. “As bad as ever you can be!” he repeated, his eyes alight with a sombre fire.
“I do not see that you need be so very angry, Reginald. Remember that it is my guardian,” emphasizing the word; “it does not concern you so much.”
“It does concern me. Nothing could concern me more,” he answered vehemently.
“If I had known you would have been so fearfully angry I never would have told you. How unreasonable and inconsistent you are. You insisted on an answer; you made me speak by main force”—holding up her slender wrist, which still retained the red mark of his fingers—“and when your wish is gratified you are furious. You are encroaching on the privileges of my sex; now are you not?” she asked with a smile.
“Did I do that, Alice?” he exclaimed aghast, pointing to her wrist. “I most sincerely beg your pardon. I was so determined to hear the truth that I forgot it was not a man’s arm I was grasping. I have been downright brutal, but the idea of anyone casting a slur on you of all people drives me beside myself. I am afraid I have been very rude and violent altogether; but you are acquainted with my temper of old, and time, as you may observe, has not improved it,” he concluded with a short laugh.
“May I look at your wrist?” he asked with real concern depicted in his face.
“You may,” she replied, frankly placing her thin little hand in his.
“I hope you will forgive me, Alice. I must have hurt you,” he added after a pause, dropping her hand with a respectful distant gesture, as if he had suddenly recollected himself.
“You did hurt me. You have no idea how strong you are; your hand feels as if it were made of steel. ‘I’ll forgive you this time,’ as Madame Daverne used to say, ‘but don’t let it occur again,’” she added with an assumed gaiety she was far from feeling.
After a silence of some minutes he said: