“I’m not going on any longer,” he said quietly. “I’m through. More. I’ve just come across from Bordeaux and I want a bath and a change. Reason suggests that you’re using a first-floor suite. Very well. I shall go up to the second floor.”
Belinda sprang to her feet.
“I absolutely refuse,” she flamed, “to consider such an idea. Good heavens, man! Think of what people would say. What about my name?”
“Belinda,” said Pomeroy sternly, “you should have thought of that before. I gave you—not an inch, but an ell. What’s my reward? You take a furlong. . . . Good, full measure I gave you, without a word. You chuck it in my face—and ask for more. Once would have been enough for most men: because I loved you”—Belinda started—“yes, loved you, I let you do it twice. I believed you merely thoughtless—wanted you to have a good time, even if I had to pay. It never occurred to me that you were twisting my tail.”
The girl’s eyes fell, and a finger flew to her lip.
Pomeroy proceeded quietly.
“If you neither love nor respect him, you can twist a man’s tail nearly off—provided he loves you. But the man mustn’t know it, Belinda. The moment he does, his self-respect won’t allow you to twist his tail any more.”
For a moment the two stood silent.
Then the girl turned and, walking across the hall, entered one of the salons and closed its door.
Pomeroy called his servants, and his luggage was taken upstairs.