As Rosalie passed along the corridor her sudden decision was sealed by growing annoyance and a longing, almost amounting to fear, to get away.
With scarcely a pause she knocked upon the door, that door through which she entered last night. Without stopping she opened it. Mr. Barringcourt was there alone, at a table littered with papers, writing. He was indeed busy and engrossed, for on her entrance he did not raise his head, till accosted by her voice, and then he looked up sharply enough.
“You!” said he, bringing his eyebrows together in that dark frown which Rosalie had seen last night, and seeing had never forgotten.
“Yes. I want to go out.”
“Impossible!” said he, with an impatient gesture of his hand, and returned to the paper.
“I want to go out,” she repeated. “And you have no right to stop me.”
“In my own house I have every right. Go away, you are interrupting me.”
“So are you interrupting me.”
He laughed, not altogether kindly, and looked up at her again.
“That is little short of impudent.”