"Your worst, you mean."
She turned on him.
"How dare you say that? How dare you speak of my friends like that? How dare you speak to me at all?"
He continued, quite unmoved—
"Don't be silly, Alwynne. Your best friend is your Aunt Elsbeth—you ought to know that. You don't treat her well, I think. You've been away a fortnight with that—friend of yours; you stayed on without consulting her——"
"I telephoned," cried Alwynne, in spite of herself.
"Since then you've sent her one post card. She isn't even sure that you're coming back to-day; she's just had to sit tight and wait until it's your—no, I'll give you your due—until it's your friend's pleasure to send you back to her, fagged out, miserable—just like my dog after a thrashing. And Elsbeth's to comfort you, and cosset you, and put you to rights—and then you'll go back to that woman again, to have the strength and the spirit drained out of you afresh—and you walk along talking of your best friend. I call it hard luck on Elsbeth."
Alwynne's careful dignity was forgotten in her anger. She turned on him like a furious schoolgirl.
"Will you stop, please? How dare you speak of Clare? If Elsbeth chooses to complain——What affair is it of yours anyhow? I'll never speak to you again—never—or Elsbeth either." Her voice broke—she was on the verge of tears.
Roger took her by the arm, and drew her to a seat.