"Oh, go to hell!" Paula threw at him, over her shoulder.
He walked out of the room with an air of wounded dignity which gave promise of a day of sulks to come.
"You shouldn't have said that," Mathilda told Paula. "People not out of the top-drawer are always inclined to be touchy."
But Paula had as little consideration for the sensibilities of others as Stephen, and she said disdainfully: "He's yellow. Odd, how clever he can be on paper, yet how inept in conversation!"
"He's a little out of his depth. Frightened too. He can't cope."
"Badly frightened. I ought to have known he'd lose his nerve. I can't bear men who go to pieces in a crisis!" She saw the quick, startled look Mathilda cast at her, and added, with a curl of her lip: "Don't be afraid! I didn't mean to imply that Willoughby was my accomplice."
"Well, do, for God's sake, be more careful what you say!" recommended Mathilda crossly.
Paula laughed. "It's getting you down, Mathilda, isn't it? I knew it would. You're beginning to feel suspicious; you listen - oh, without meaning to! - for the underlying motive beneath everything we say. Do you wonder which of us did it? Find your brain sneaking round to that thought, however much you try not to let it?"
"Yes," Mathilda admitted.
Paula cast herself on to the sofa, setting her elbows on her knees, and sinking her chin into the cup of her hands. "I know! Ah, but it is interesting, isn't it? Confess!"