Hawkins stood looking irresolutely at her as she walked up to the open door that in Miss Duffy’s time had been barricaded against all comers. She went in as unswervingly as if she had already forgotten his existence, and then yielding, according to his custom, to impulse, he followed her.
She had already taken up a book, and was seated in a chair by the window when he came in, and she did not even lift her eyes at his entrance. He went over to the polished centre table, and, opening a photograph book, turned over a few of the leaves noisily. There was a pause, tense on both sides as silence and self-consciousness could make it, and broken only by the happy, persistent call of the cuckoo and the infant caws of the young rooks in the elms by the gate. The photograph book was shut with a bang, and Hawkins, taking his resolution in both hands, came across the room, and stood in front of Francie.
“Look here!” he said, with a strange mixture of anger and entreaty in his voice; “how much longer is this sort of thing to go on? Are you always going to treat me in this sort of way?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” answered Francie, looking up at him with eyes of icy blue, and then down at her book again. Her heart was beating in leaps, but of this Hawkins was naturally not aware.
“You can’t pretend not to know what I mean—this sort of rot of not speaking to me, and looking as if you had never seen me before. I told you I was sorry and all that. I don’t know what more you want!”
“I don’t want ever to speak to you again.” She turned over a page of her book, and forced her eyes to follow its lines.
“You know that’s impossible; you know you’ve got to speak to me again, unless you want to cut me and kick up a regular row. I don’t know why you’re going on like this. It’s awfully unfair, and it’s awfully hard lines.” Since his visit to Rosemount, the conviction had been growing on him that in marrying another man she had treated him heartlessly, and he spoke with the fervour of righteous resentment.
“Oh, that comes well from you!” exclaimed Francie, dropping the book, and sitting up with all her pent-in wrath ablaze at last; “you that behaved in a way anyone else would be ashamed to think of! Telling me lies from first to last, and trying to make a fool of me—It was a good thing I didn’t believe more than the half you said!”
“I told you no lie,” said Hawkins, trying to stand his ground. “All I did was that I didn’t answer your letters because I couldn’t get out of that accursed engagement, and I didn’t know what to say to you, and then the next thing I knew was that you were engaged, without a word of explanation to me or anything.”
“And will you tell me what call there was for me to explain anything to you?” burst out Francie, looking, with the hot flash in her eyes, more lovely than he had ever seen her; “for all I knew of you, you were married already to your English heiress—Miss Coppers, or whatever her name is—I wonder at your impudence in daring to say things like that to me!” The lift of her head, and the splendid colour in her cheeks would have befitted any angry goddess, and it is not surprising that Hawkins did not take offence at the crudity of the expression, and thought less of the brogue in which it was uttered than of the quiver of the young voice that accused him.