"Yes," she says again, and for the first time is struck by the wretched meagreness of her replies.
"Well?" says Dysart, roughly. But this time not even the desolate monosyllable rewards the keenness of his examination.
"Well?" says he again, going closer to her and resting his hand on the wooden rail against which she, too, was leaning. He is So close to her now that it is impossible to escape his scrutiny. "What am I to understand by that? Tell me how you have decided." Getting no answer to this either, he says, impatiently, "Tell me, Joyce."
"I refused him," says she at last in a low tone, and in a dull sort of way, as if the matter is one of indifference to her.
"Ah!" He draws a long breath. "It is true?" he says, laying his hand on hers as it lies on the top of the woodwork.
"Quite true."
"And yet—you have been crying?"
"You can see that," says she, petulantly. "You have taken pains to see and to tell me of it. Do you think it is a pleasant thing to be told? Most people," glancing angrily toward him—"everyone, I think—makes it a point now-a-days not to see when one has been making a fool of oneself; but you seem to take a delight in torturing me."
"Did it," says he bitterly, ignoring—perhaps not even hearing—her outburst. "Did it cost you so much to refuse him?"
"It cost me nothing!" with a sudden effort, and a flash from her beautiful eyes.