“Can you not answer?” she demanded, catching her breath with excitement. “You are not Henry Wilton.”
“Well?” I said half-inquiringly. It was not safe to advance or retreat.
“Well—! well—!” She repeated my answer, with indignation and disdain deepening in her voice. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
“What should I say?” I replied quietly. “You make an assertion. Is there anything more to be said?”
“Oh, you may laugh at me if you please, because you can hoodwink the others.”
I protested that laughter was the last thing I was thinking of at the moment.
Then she burst out impetuously:
“Oh, if I were only a man! No; if I were a man I should be hoodwinked like the rest. But you can not deceive me. Who are you? What are you here for? What are you trying to do?”
She was blazing with wrath. Her tone had raised hardly an interval of the scale, but every word that came in that smooth, low voice was heavy with contempt and anger. It was the true daughter of the Wolf who stood before me.
“I am afraid, Miss Knapp, you are not well tonight,” I said soothingly.