In that second, a scarlet mist swam before Rose Aviolet’s eyes.
Through it, she saw the tapestry curtains torn apart by her own hand, and Ford, in his most characteristic attitude, leaning against the high mantelshelf on which stood the pieces of famille verte.
Almost simultaneously with the vision, she was driving her clenched hand, with all her maddened strength behind it, into the middle of his brown, elongated face, from which the sneer had not yet faded.
“God damn you—and damn you—and damn you!” whispered Rose Aviolet, her voice strangled in her throat.
There was a crash of splintering china as Ford reeled backwards and as his shoulder swept the pieces of green china into the tiles of the hearth.
“Mother!” screamed Cecil’s voice behind her.
The next moment Ford had recovered his balance and with one hand gripped Rose’s elbow. With the other hand he pulled wildly at the cord of his smashed pince-nez. Blood sprang where the glass had cut him and his furious gestures smeared it all over his face.
Rose’s free arm swung back again and she raised it for another blow.
Ford gripped her wrist, and in an instant she was powerless.
His face, with amazed, furious eyes, was glaring into hers. “She’s mad—mad—I could have her certified for this....”