"Impossible," says she curtly, annoyed by his tone, which is perhaps, unconsciously, a little dictatorial.
"You refuse me?"
"It is not the question. I have said I would go. I see no reason for not going. I decline to make myself foolish in the eyes of everybody by drawing back at the last moment."
"You have forgotten everything then."
"I don't know," coldly, "that there is anything to remember."
"Oh!" bitterly, "not so far as I am concerned. I count for nothing. I allow that. But he—I fancied you had at least read him."
"I think, perhaps, there was nothing to read," says she, lowering her eyes.
"If you can think that, it is useless my saying anything further."
He moves to one side as if to let her pass, but she hesitates. Perhaps she would have said something to soften her decision—but—a rare thing with him, he loses his temper. Seeing her standing there before him, so sweet, so lovely, so indifferent, as he tells himself, his despair overcomes him.
"I have a voice in this matter," says he, frowning heavily. "I forbid you to go with that fellow."