“It’s you who don’t understand. Justin and I aren’t like that. We—we don’t care about that sort of thing. It’s silly!”
Coral surveyed her, made up her mind about her at last.
“Poor old Laura!” she said deliberately.
Laura flushed angrily. She stared at Coral, chin lifted, with half-shut, indifferent eyes—the look that was her shield in danger.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Laura icily.
“Don’t you?” Coral bent placidly over her embroidery frame. In the pause her needle made tiny, explosive sounds as it popped in and out of the taut silk. She looked up at last to find that Laura had risen, was standing over her. Behind her fierceness she had a curious air of alarm.
“Well?” said Coral, with lazy amusement.
And then Laura’s haughtiness melted rather pitifully into childish, bewildered anger.
“You talk so! I hate the way you talk. About us. You hint——You’re always hinting! What is it you mean? Do you think——? Do you imagine——?” She drew a difficult breath. “Oh, I think you’re a perfect beast!” cried Laura fiercely.
She flamed out of the room: and, for the rest of the day, would not look at her, would not speak to her.