She went on dressing, entirely disregarding him; then when she was ready, she said:
“I’m going downstairs now. Perhaps you’ll dress, when you’ve finished your bar-room tirade.”
§ ii
It was a jolly dinner. Both Claudine and Gilbert were in high spirits, as angry people often are, and Mr. MacGregor appeared greatly entertained. The girls were ridiculous; Claudine recognized their mood and frowned. She knew and dreaded this high tension, when every remark provoked a giggle, when they exchanged glances and were scarcely able to control their lips, trembling with laughter. A thought came to her which made her flush with shame. Could they have heard their father ...? He had certainly talked very loudly. And unfortunately that was the sort of thing they considered funny.
Poor woman! She was in misery, before her wretched task. She was afraid of the inscrutable Mr. MacGregor; he was so masculine, so self-assured, so old and sensible. But she was determined nevertheless to drive him away, no matter how outrageous she had to be. He should not be given the opportunity of putting ideas into Andrée’s head—silly, headstrong Andrée! She wouldn’t leave them alone for an instant.
As they rose from the table, said Mr. MacGregor:
“Miss Andrée, shall we have a little music? We might run over that new duet—”
“No, thanks!” said Andrée, laughing. “Not with you!”
“Nonsense! Come along!” he said, with authoritative, professorial air. “I want to see what you’ve been doing.”
“No!” she repeated. “I don’t want to! I won’t!”