‘If you don’t light the gas, I’ll go at once.’
‘I haven’t any matches, darling.’
‘Oh, just like you! You never have anything. I thought every man carried matches.’
She broke from him, and ran out. Wretched in the fear that she might not return, Horace waited on the threshold. In the drawing-room some one was singing ‘The Maid of the Mill.’ It came to an end, and there sounded voices, which the tormented listener strove to recognise. For at least ten minutes he waited, and was all but frantic, when the girl made her appearance, coming downstairs.
‘Never do that again,’ she said viciously. ‘I’ve had to unfasten my things, and put them straight. What a nuisance you are!’
He stood cowed before her, limp and tremulous.
‘There, light the gas. Why couldn’t you come into the drawing-room, like other people do?’
‘Who is there?’ asked the young man, when he had obeyed her.
‘Go and see for yourself.’
‘Don’t be angry, Fanny.’ He followed her, like a dog, as she walked round the table to look at herself in the mirror over the fireplace. ‘It was only because I’m so fond of you.’