Joyselle watched her in silence for a long time. "Not even if I entreat you?" he asked in a gentle voice.
Her lips tightened, for tenderness with coercion behind it had no delusions for her.
"Not even if you entreat me. I have told you that I dislike my mother and I do not wish to see her. I will not tell you why, and that, at least, you ought to approve of."
"It is horrible for a daughter to say that she does not like her mother——"
"It is horrible for me not to like her, but I can't help it. And it is not horrible for me to tell—anything to you."
But his face did not soften. "I wish you to go to Kingsmead, Brigit."
"I will not go to Kingsmead, Victor."
"Then," his anger now finally blazed up, "I can say only—good-bye."
Her face was as white and as hard as his own, and being a woman she could even laugh.
"Adieu, donc—Beau-père!"