“Even that isn’t so very ancient,” he said, with infantile resentment. “No one but you would call a man of his age old. He’s a fine fellow. He has a good name, and he’s well fixed, and he’s very fond of Andrée—”
“You’re—you’re positively wicked!” she cried, choking with sobs. “Andrée—that wonderful, beautiful child—and that silly old man ...! I’m ashamed of you! I’m disgusted with you!”
He was astonished and somewhat alarmed. How was he to explain to this unreasonably violent woman his pretty fancies about young brides and adoring, distinguished, grey-haired husbands?
“See here!” he began, but she wouldn’t listen to him.
“I won’t allow him to say a word to her! Not a word! I’m going to speak to him myself and—”
“No, you don’t! I’m not going to be made a fool of! I told him he might speak to Andrée—”
“And I’ll tell him he can’t. I won’t have any interference where Andrée’s concerned.”
“I tell you I have something to say in this matter!”
She looked at him with a cold smile, and deliberately turned away from him. It was a trick of hers, and it always infuriated him. He raged at her in a way of which he was afterward ashamed.