“I forbid you, then!”
He looked puzzled, but took it for some foreign banter, and laughed.
“I forbid you!” repeated Miss Abbott, and all the indignation of her sex and her nationality went thrilling through the words.
“But why?” He jumped up, frowning. His voice was squeaky and petulant, like that of a child who is suddenly forbidden a toy.
“You have ruined one woman; I forbid you to ruin another. It is not a year since Lilia died. You pretended to me the other day that you loved her. It is a lie. You wanted her money. Has this woman money too?”
“Why, yes!” he said irritably. “A little.”
“And I suppose you will say that you love her.”
“I shall not say it. It will be untrue. Now my poor wife—” He stopped, seeing that the comparison would involve him in difficulties. And indeed he had often found Lilia as agreeable as any one else.
Miss Abbott was furious at this final insult to her dead acquaintance. She was glad that after all she could be so angry with the boy. She glowed and throbbed; her tongue moved nimbly. At the finish, if the real business of the day had been completed, she could have swept majestically from the house. But the baby still remained, asleep on a dirty rug.
Gino was thoughtful, and stood scratching his head. He respected Miss Abbott. He wished that she would respect him. “So you do not advise me?” he said dolefully. “But why should it be a failure?”