'Yes,' said Lucy. 'And I'm so sorry. Won't we kiss and be friends?'
'Not yet, thank you. I must be sure first that you understand how deliberately wicked you've been.'
'Oh, but I haven't been deliberately wicked!' exclaimed Lucy, opening her eyes wide with astonishment. 'Everard, how can you say such a thing?'
'Ah, I see. You are still quite impenitent, and I am sorry I came up.'
He undid her arm from round his knees, put her on one side, and got out of the chair. Rage swept over him again.
'Here I've been sitting watching you like a dog,' he said, towering over her, 'like a faithful dog while you slept, waiting patiently till you woke up and only wanting to forgive you, and you not only callously sleep after having behaved outrageously and allowed yourself to exhibit temper before the whole house on our very first day together in my home—well knowing, mind you, what day it is—but when I ask you for some sign, some word, some assurance that you are ashamed of yourself and will not repeat your conduct, you merely deny that you have done anything needing forgiveness.'
He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, his face twitching with anger, and wished to God he could knock the opposition out of Lucy as easily.
She, on the floor, sat looking up at him, her mouth open. What could she do with Everard? She didn't know. Love had no effect; saying she was sorry had no effect.
She pushed her hair nervously behind her ears with both hands. 'I'm sick of quarrels,' she said.
'So am I,' said Wemyss, going towards the door thrusting his pipe into his pocket. 'You've only got yourself to thank for them.'