"Jake!" There was consternation in her voice, bitter disappointment, keen pain. "Oh, Jake," she said, "you can't mean to refuse--like that!"
"How did you expect me to refuse?" said Jake, without turning.
She answered him chokingly. "Not as if--as if--I had insulted you."
He dropped the poker and straightened himself. "Maybe you didn't intend any insult," he said. "But you don't credit me with an over-allowance of self-respect, do you?"
She did not answer him, for she could not. She stood fighting for self-control, striving to collect her scattered forces, but so overwhelmingly distressed that she could not attempt to withstand him.
He turned round to her slowly at length. "Say, Maud," he said, something of the old kindliness in his tone, "we won't talk any more about it. Guess it's an impossible subject. You'll know me better next time."
She struggled for utterance with lips that trembled piteously; her eyes were brimming with tears. Finally, with a small, hopeless gesture, she turned away, moved across the room blindly, found the door and fumblingly opened it.
"Good night!" she whispered then in a voice that was scarcely audible, and in another moment the door closed without sound behind her.
She was gone. Jake's mouth set itself in a hard, straight line. He squared his shoulders with the instinctive movement of a man facing odds. He began to feel with brutal deliberation for his cigarette-case.
The rasp of his match made a short, indignant sound in the quiet room. It was like a sharp protest. The smell of his tobacco began to dominate the atmosphere. He smoked furiously.