"No, you don't; you really like it."
"Isabel, this is absurd, and you know it is."
Isabel felt absolutely sure now that Paul did not really care; an ideal lover would have been in a frenzy of agony at her anger, she thought, instead of taking it in this calm, superior way.
"I suppose you'd like me to be shut up like a Turkish woman, and never speak to any man but you!"
"Certainly not; but, all the same, I am not going to have my promised wife flirting with a lot of other men, and I tell you so. As I have said before, there are some things which a man would sooner renounce than share."
Isabel shrugged her shoulders. "You really have got a most detestable temper."
"Isabel, don't, for pity's sake, go on like this. There is nothing in reason that I would not do or bear for you, but it is possible to try a man too far."
"It strikes me there is precious little that you would do or bear for me, in spite of all your talk."
Paul looked very stern. "Do you really mean that?"
By this time Isabel had lashed herself into a perfect fury. "Yes, I do mean it; you are so proud and self-centred that you only care for what enhances your own importance. You are pleased to be engaged to a smart woman, because it reflects credit on yourself; but for the feelings of the woman underneath her smartness, you don't care a rap."