Her hot anger began to cool, to harden into an emotion which she did not comprehend. She stared back at Louis, at first with scorn, but after a moment with puzzled curiosity. Had he always looked like this? Never any different from this?
“You look so kind of funny to-day!” she observed wonderingly.
“Funny? What d’you mean, funny?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” she said, still staring at him. “Just—so kind of—measly.”
His swarthy face turned dark red, and in a low voice he made a forcible retort; but Miss Riordan was past anger. She was looking at her bouquet, lifting up the drooping heads with anxious care.
“I’ll dry ’em in a nice little jar,” she thought. “I guess they’ll keep forever that way.”
Louis was still talking.
“You’d better go away,” she said casually. “I’m going down to the island.”
He got up promptly.
“I’ll go, all right!” said he. “An’ you can git down on your knees an’ beg me, an’ I’ll never come back. Let me tell you—”