“Eh?—what?”
“The key of her bag.”
“Oh, of course!—yes. Shall I take it or will you?” His embarrassment was pitiable, while she stood cool.
“You, I think.”
He bolted.
Wareham, annoyed with his position, stood confronting her. Her height nearly reached his own, her eyes, dark with anger, swept him scornfully, she drew a deep breath.
“Honourable—to set my friends against me!”
He remained silent. Her tone grew more scathing.
“Do not imagine that I take exception at your opinions—your attitude,”—a stress on the ‘your’—“to them I am absolutely indifferent. Think what you please—judge me as harshly as you like—influence your own friends if it amuses you to do so. When—not satisfied with this—you attempt to prejudice the people under whose care I am travelling, then, Mr Wareham, you are taking advantage of my being a woman to offer me an unpardonable insult.”
Wareham stood like a statue, while she scourged him with her words. Indignation gave such beauty to her face and gestures, that his own anger grew soft.