"But what kind of a week was it?" cried Angelica.
"I’m not a rich man, but I did the best I could for you."
"You know what I mean! In that awful little road-house, with you shutting yourself up in the bedroom all the time and leaving me there alone for all those men to laugh at!"
"I had to write."
"You hadn’t any business to write. You might have thought a little bit how I’d feel. If you couldn’t pay any attention to me, you shouldn’t——”
"Did you bring me here to reproach me?" he demanded. "Because if you did, I’ve had enough."
"No, I didn’t mean to scold you," she answered, hurriedly, recalled to the necessity for placating him. "No—I just wanted to see you."
Her face, which had become so pinched, so colourless, was covered with a vivid flush. The conciliatory words almost stuck in her throat; but apparently Vincent didn’t observe her emotion.
"I’m not disposed to endure much more from you—upon my word, I’m not!" he went on. "The way you went off, simply leaving me a note to say that you thought you’d go home—making a fool of me! I was naïve enough to imagine we were to spend our lives together. I thought we’d stay for a month or so in that beautiful little mountain inn, fishing, tramping, reading, talking——”
"You hardly spoke to me all day long. I had to sit down-stairs in the dining-room with those fishermen."