“I do not know. It is you who know.”
“Well,” viciously, “there HAS been a sort of luxury in it in lashing out with one's heels, and smashing things—and in knowing that people prefer to keep clear.”
She lifted her shoulders a little.
“Then perhaps it has paid.”
“No,” suddenly and fiercely, “damn it, it has not!”
And she actually made no reply to that.
“What do you mean to do?” he questioned as bluntly as before. He knew she would understand what he meant.
“Not much. To see that Rosy is not unhappy any more. We can prevent that. She was out of repair—as the house was. She is being rebuilt and decorated. She knows that she will be taken care of.”
“I know her better than you do,” with a laugh. “She will not go away. She is too frightened of the row it would make—of what I should say. I should have plenty to say. I can make her shake in her shoes.”
Betty let her eyes rest full upon him, and he saw that she was softly summing him up—quite without prejudice, merely in interested speculation upon the workings of type.