Wilhelmina shrugged her shoulders.
“You are a very wearisome person,” she declared. “Did you ever know me to change my mind? Every word I have said to you I absolutely mean. No more, no less!”
One of the veins at his temple was protruding. He was passionately angry.
“You think it wise,” he cried threateningly, “to make an enemy of me!”
She laughed derisively, a laugh as soft as velvet, but to him maddening.
“My dear young man,” she said carelessly, “I think I should prefer you in that capacity. I should probably see less of you.”
He took a quick stride forward. He thrust his face almost into hers. She drew back with a gesture of disgust.
“You,” he cried, striking the table with his clenched fist, “to pretend to care what becomes of any fool of a girl who chooses to take a lover! Is it because you’re in love with this would-be saint here?”
He struck the table again. He was absolutely beside himself with rage. He seemed even to find a physical difficulty in speech. Wilhelmina raised her eyebrows.