"You mean that you cannot bear Corrie," she retorted, in swift reproach. "You treat him—how you treat him! You hardly speak to him, you hardly look at him. Oh, you are cruel, you will not see how he suffers for one moment's fault."
Isabel grasped a chair-back, commencing to tremble.
"I can't bear to stay," she repeated hysterically. "Don't talk to me about Corrie."
"I never will again," Flavia assured, pale with extreme anger. "Yet you might remember that he loves you; a little kindness from you would help him so much. Do you know where he spent yesterday? He was out in his motor boat; out in November with a north gale blowing, alone in that speed-boat that is half under water all the time. You do not care, you have no pity."
"I——"
Flavia imposed silence with a gesture, herself quite unconscious of how overwhelming was this contrast to her usual gentleness.
"He has done wrong—you have nothing to give him but more punishment. Yes, go away, that is best. But he would have been kinder to you, Isabel."
Isabel let go of the chair, her gray eyes dilating unnaturally. Her gaze dwelling on Flavia, she slowly retreated a few steps towards the door, then suddenly turned and fled, leaving no answer.
With her going, Flavia's passion died, something like fear taking its place. That was what Corrie had felt, reflected Corrie's sister; a sweep of flame-like anger that blinded judgment, a slipping of self-mastery that loosed hand or tongue. Only, she had not wanted to hurt Isabel, that was a point she could not conceive reaching, herself.
When she had somewhat recovered, Flavia went to find her furs and outdoor apparel. She knew where Corrie had gone; she would meet him and herself break the tidings of his cousin's coming departure. He would be walking; he had not touched an automobile since he left the seat of his pink racer to rescue Gerard from beneath the crushed Mercury, and he had no patience with horses.