He tosses the paper on to the floor. She looks up as it falls, rises, turns off the gas-jet, sinks back into her old position, and stares into the fire. He gets up, goes over, and kneels down next her.
"I am awfully sorry you are put out, old girl. I saw you were when I answered you like that; but I couldn't help feeling a bit cut up, you know. She wrote such an awfully nice letter, you know, wished—"
"You all sorts of happiness," with a snap, "and hopes you'll meet in a better world?"
He rises to his feet and stares at her in dumb amazement. How could she know? She smiles with a touch of malicious satisfaction, as she sees the effect of her chance shot.
"It's a pity, isn't it, that you both have to wait so long?"
He imagines he sees light, and blunders ahead like an honest man.
"I wouldn't have sent those things back now if I had thought you cared. By Jove, it never entered my head that you'd be jealous!"
"Jealous?" She is on her feet like a red white flash. "I, jealous of her?" Each word is emphasized. "I couldn't be jealous of her, Nur die Dummen sind bescheiden! Why, the girl isn't fit to tie my shoe-strings!"
This is too much; he feels he must protest.
"You don't know her," feebly. "She is an awfully nice girl!"