“Marry me—will you? Then we needn’t have any upset.”
For an instant the old bliss held her again.
“He hasn’t grown much, has he, since then?” The looking-glass could mock her while its eyes still held the vision.
She answered sullenly—
“What does it matter? I like him this way.”
“So much,” it drawled, “the worse for Justin.”
“Can I help that?” She struck at the table in front of her so that the brushes clattered, and a bottle of lavender tipped, and fell, and broke. And while the sweet, domestic fume of it filled the room she heard the instant, inexorable comment—
“What’s the use of that? What’s the use of behaving like a child?”
“Am I his keeper?” she began fiercely, but at once, with equal violence, it over-rode her—
“Aren’t you? Aren’t you? Haven’t you made your plans?”