“Took a walk,” she said, turning to the bed and beginning to rock. “It’s a queer sort of hour to choose for walking,” and lifting the cane she recommenced her occupation of scratching the foot-board with it, tracing long, parabolic curves across the entire expanse, watching the cane’s tip with her head tilted to one side. Dominick, who was not looking at her, did not notice the noise.
“I thought,” she said, tracing a great arc from one side to the other, “that you were with your loving family—opening the ball, probably.”
He did not move, but said quietly,
“It was impossible to get the invitation, Berny. I tried to do it and was refused. I want you to understand that as long as I live I’ll never do a thing like that again.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” she said, laughing and shaking her head like an amused child. “Oh, yes, you will.” She threw her head back and, looking at the ceiling, laughed still louder with a note of fierceness in the sound. “You’ll do it and lots more things like it. You’ll do it if I want you to, Dominick Ryan.”
He did not answer. She hitched her chair closer to the bed as if to return to an engrossing pastime, and, leaning back luxuriously, resumed her play with the cane. This time Dominick noticed the noise and turned. She was conscious that he was looking at her, and began to scratch with an appearance of charmed absorption, such as an artist might display in his work. He watched her for a moment in silent astonishment and then broke out sharply,
“What are you doing?”
“Scratching the bed,” she responded calmly.
“You must be mad,” he said, striding angrily toward her and stretching a hand for the cane. “You’re ruining it.”
She whipped the cane to the other side, out of his reach.