Unwittingly, she had used the right tone. He leant back in the chair and stared at her with a mixture of resentment and amusement.
"You have plenty of confidence, anyhow, young lady," he said.
"And you have none," retorted Celia, with a dash of colour. "Fancy a man of your age trying to—to kill himself!"
"My age!" He laughed mirthlessly, ironically. "You talk to me, look at me, as if I were a boy."
"You are not much more," said Celia; "and a foolish one into the bargain."
He pushed impatiently the short lock of hair from his forehead, which was dank with sweat.
"Be that as it may," he said, "you have interfered most unwarrantably in a matter which does not concern you. All the same, I suppose you expect me to say that I am obliged to you. Well, I'm not; I don't like being interfered with, especially—by a woman. You come into my room——" He tried to rise with an air of dignity, but he sank back, as if he were weak, and with his arms extended along those of the chair regarded her with a grim smile of whimsicality. "Well, I suppose I ought to say I am obliged to you. Consider that I have said it and—pray, don't let me keep you."
Celia rose, the revolver still in her hand.
"Good night," she said.
"Here!" he called out to her, wearily; "give me back that thing; put it down."