"Don't know, I'm sure," says Dulce, impatiently; "I never keep any accounts of my own money. I make a point of not doing that. If it's spent, it's spent, you know, and one gains nothing by thinking of it. It only shows one how extravagant one has been, and I do so hate scolding myself!"
"But, my dear child, Madame Grande must have made a mistake. It is all nonsense; if you would just look it over, if only to convince yourself. I am not unreasonable."
"I won't look it over," says Miss Blount, promptly. "I hate looking over things, and I hate bills, and I hate Madame Grande, and I hate—everything."
After this outburst she makes for the door, and the morning-room knows her no more for a considerable time. Portia looks up from her painting in some surprise, and Julia tries to smother the thought that the final expression of hatred should have ended in the word "you."
In the hall outside, Dulce almost runs into Stephen's arms, who has come up to see her very early, being in a restless and most unsatisfactory mood. His eyes brighten and he flushes warmly as he meets her, but she, drawing back from him, gives him to understand by the very faintest of imperative gestures that he is to come no nearer.
"You!" she says, ungraciously.
"Yes—you expected me?" This question suggests the possibility that he fears he is not altogether welcome. She waives it, and goes on as though she had not heard him.
"Have you done what you promised?" she asks, coldly.
"No, you mean—?" he hesitates.
"You must remember. You were to tell Roger next day; this (though it hardly sounds right) is next day; have you told him that I have promised to marry you some time?"