“Dagshaw always seems to me to be one of those masterful men who sooner or later——”
He ducked his head just in time, and the book which Mabel had thrown knocked over the vase of flowers behind him.
“If you can’t let me read in peace,” she said, “at any rate, you shan’t sneer at my friends. You’re always doing it, and everybody notices it. I simply can’t understand you. You’re like nothing on earth. What have you done with that love-letter of yours?”
“Oh, come,” he said, “I’ve had no love letter.”
“You silly liar; I mean the letter from your Lady Tyburn. Have you been kissing it?”
“Really, Mabel, this is absurd. I might as well ask you if you have been kissing the Mammoth Circus.”
“I’m going to bed,” said Mabel abruptly. “I’m absolutely fed up with you. I’m sick to death of you. I hate you. And I despise you.”
She went out and slammed the door violently. Four more vases went over, and three pictures fell.
Luke went over to the open window and looked out into the cool night. At the house opposite a girl was singing very beautifully “The End of a Perfect Day.”