“Sit down! Sit down!” he said. “What brings you here, Andrée?”
“I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to tell you something.... I wanted you to hear it from me instead of from Mother, so that you—wouldn’t fly at her.”
She knew that she was antagonizing him, but she could not help it. The only way she felt able to tell her monstrous piece of news was rudely and sternly, to deny even to herself the dread and shrinking she suffered. Her father’s face changed perceptibly.
“Well!” he said, impatiently.
She laid her pocket-book on his desk, a beautiful little pocket-book, for she had all her mother’s elegance in trifles—and stood looking down at him.
“I’m going to marry Mr. Stephens!” she said.
“Who the devil is Mr. Stephens?” he cried.
Andrée began to laugh.
“That man you had a fight with last summer, in the mountains.”
“What!” he cried, springing up. “What! That common, worthless little cad!”