He felt himself once more in danger of weakness. Rhoda, in her haughty, resentful mood, was very attractive to him. He was tempted to take her in his arms, and kiss her until she softened, pleaded with him. He wished to see her shed tears. But the voice in which she now spoke to him was far enough from tearfulness.
“You must prove to me that you have been wrongly suspected.”
Ah, that was to be her line of conduct. She believed her power over him was absolute. She stood on her dignity, would bring him to supplication, would give him all the trouble she could before she professed herself satisfied.
“How am I to prove it?” he asked bluntly.
“If there was nothing wrong between you and Mrs. Widdowson, there must be some very simple explanation of her coming to your rooms and being so anxious to see you.”
“And is it my business to discover that explanation?”
“Can it be mine?”
“It must either be yours, Rhoda, or no one’s. I shall take no single step in the matter.”
The battle was declared. Each stood at full height, pertinacious, resolved on victory.
“You are putting yourself wildly in the wrong,” Everard continued. “By refusing to take my word you make it impossible for me to hope that we could live together as we imagined.”