“My daughter consented to receive you only because I advised her to do so. I will not speak now of your unusual and unwarranted behavior during the past month, nor will I undertake to say how much annoyance and displeasure you have caused. She is the affianced wife of Prince Ravorelli and she marries him because she loves him. I have given you her decision.” For a moment their eyes met like the clashing of swords.
“Has she commissioned you to say this to me?” he asked, his eyes penetrating like a knife.
“I am her mother, not her agent.”
“Then I shall respectfully insist that she speak for herself.” If a look could kill a man, hers would have been guilty of murder.
“She is coming now, Mr. Quentin. You have but a moment of doubt left. She despises you.” For the first time his composure wavered, and his lips parted, as if to exclaim against such an assumption. But Dorothy was already at the foot of the stairs, pale, cold and unfriendly. She was the personification of a tragedy queen as she paused at the foot of the stairs, her nand on the newell post, the lights from above shining directly into a face so disdainful that he could hardly believe it was hers. There was no warmth in her voice when she spoke to him, who stood immovable, speechless, before her.
“What have you to say to me, Phil?”
“I have first to ask if you despise me,” he found voice to say.
“I decline to answer that question.''
“Your mother has said so.”
“She should not have done so.”