I drew back and involuntarily said, “Beg pardon.” I glanced at her mother and it was my turn to shudder. I can't hope to give an accurate impression of that stony, mercenary, mean face. There are looks that paint upon the human countenance the whole of a life, as a flash of lightning paints upon the blackness of the night miles on miles of landscape. That look of Mrs. Ellersly's—stern disapproval at her daughter, stern command that she be more civil, that she unbend—showed me the old woman's soul. And I say that no old harpy presiding over a dive is more full of the venom of the hideous calculations of the market for flesh and blood than is a woman whose life is wrapped up in wealth and show.
“If you wish it,” I said, on impulse, to Miss Ellersly in a low voice, “I shall never try to see you again.”
I could feel rather than see the blood suddenly beating in her skin, and there was in her voice a nervousness very like fright as she answered: “I'm sure mama and I shall be glad to see you whenever you come.”
“You?” I persisted.
“Yes,” she said, after a brief hesitation.
“Glad?” I persisted.
She smiled—the faintest change in the perfect curve of her lips. “You are very persistent, aren't you?”
“Very,” I answered. “That is why I have always got whatever I wanted.”
“I admire it,” said she.
“No, you don't,” I replied. “You think it is vulgar, and you think I am vulgar because I have that quality—that and some others.”