‘Spite,’ said Mr. Thorpe.
‘Spite?’ repeated Mrs. Luke, her grey eyes very wide.
‘Feminine spite. Don’t believe a word about him not wanting to come and stay at my place. You’ve made it up. Because I kissed the girl.’
And Mr. Thorpe in his anger inquired of Mrs. Luke whether she had ever heard about hell holding no fury like a woman scorned—for in common with other men who know little poetry he knew that—and he also called her Marge to her face, because he no longer saw any reason why he shouldn’t.
‘My dear Edgar,’ was all she could find to say, her shoulders drawn up slightly to her ears as if to ward off these blows of speech, violence never yet having crossed her path.
She didn’t get angry herself. She behaved with dignity. She remembered that she was a lady.
She did, however, at last suggest that perhaps it would be better if he went away, for not only was he making more noise than she cared about—really a most noisy man, she thought, gliding to the window and softly shutting it—but it had occurred to her as a possibility that Salvatia, out in the back garden, might be telling Jocelyn that Mr. Thorpe had kissed her, and that on hearing this Jocelyn, who in any case was upset, might be further upset into coming and joining Edgar and herself in the sitting-room.
This, she was sure, would be a pity; so she suggested to Mr. Thorpe that he should go.
‘Oh, I’m going all right,’ said Mr. Thorpe, who somehow, instead of being the one to be wigged, was the one who was wigging.
‘We’ll talk it all over quietly to-morrow, dear Edgar,’ said Mrs. Luke, attempting to placate.