This piques Braine a little, and he involuntarily looks up, and says in a tone just a trifle acid:
"Had I known that it was 'just as well,' I should have had my breakfast thirty minutes ago, and been down town. Perhaps I was justified, however, in making the mistake and losing valuable time. You were last evening—somewhat—impulsive, if I remember rightly."
He is annoyed this morning. He smiles a little indulgently.
Helen has been looking into his eyes while he has spoken. She rises with an indescribable air. She says in an icy tone of reproof:
"You are intolerable, sir," and leaves the room.
Braine bites his lip. He sees his mistake—the first of its kind he ever made—and how unpardonable it must seem to a delicate woman like Helen! He is surprised and annoyed at himself, and finishing his breakfast quickly, hurries away.
The day drags slowly. Helen does not leave her room again. Everet calls, and she sends him word that she has a headache—to call in the evening, about half-past eight.
She means to get this matter off her hands at once. The situation—under the circumstances—is becoming unbearable. She can neither read nor write to-day, and time drags heavily.
When she recalls last night, and Braine's affront this morning, she feels her face tingle with mortification. That she should humiliate herself sufficiently to sue for Braine's caresses, and then be ignored, neglected, forgotten, was bad enough; that he should refer to the matter as her disappointment was worse; but that he should remind her of her part in it, is not to be endured.
She finds herself biting her lip or clenching her hands until the pain reminds her of what she is doing.