“`Insult’?” repeated her father, in angry astonishment.
“Pshaw,” said Laura, laughing soothingly and coming to her. “You know that’s nonsense, Cora. Kind old papa couldn’t do that if he tried. Dear, you know he never insulted anybody in his——”
“Don’t touch me!” screamed Cora, repulsing her. “Listen, if you’ve got to, but let me alone. He did too! He did! He knows what he said!”
“I do not!”
“He does! He does!” cried Cora. “He said that I was—I was too much `interested’ in Mr. Corliss.”
“Is that an `insult’?” the father demanded sharply.
“It was the way he said it,” Cora protested, sobbing. “He meant something he didn’t say. He did! He did! He meant to insult me!”
“I did nothing of the kind,” shouted the old man.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I said I couldn’t understand your getting so excited about the fellow’s affairs and that you seemed to take a mighty sudden interest in him.”
“Well, what if I do?” she screamed. “Haven’t I a right to be interested in what I choose? I’ve got to be interested in something, haven’t I? You don’t make life very interesting, do you? Do you think it’s interesting to spend the summer in this horrible old house with the paper falling off the walls and our rotten old furniture that I work my hands off trying to make look decent and can’t, and every other girl I know at the seashore with motor-cars and motor-boats, or getting a trip abroad and buying her clothes in Paris? What do you offer to interest me?”