She hesitated till it was too late to go, and then as he entered the house from the staring sunlight and the peace of the morning, she straightened herself, and a sulky, stubborn look came into her eyes. He might try to kill her, but she had seen death in many forms far away in Spain, and she would not be afraid till there was cause. Imagination would not take away her courage. She picked up a half-knitted stocking which lay upon the table, and standing there, while he came into the middle of the room, she began to ply the needles.
He stood still. Her face was bent over her knitting. She did not look at him.
“Well, why don’t you look at me?” he asked in a voice husky with passion.
She raised her head and looked straight into his dark, distracted eyes.
“Good morning,” she said calmly.
A kind of snarling laugh came to his lips. “I said good morning to my wife yesterday, but I will not say it to-day. What is the use of saying good morning, when the morning is not good!”
“That’s logical, anyhow,” she said, her needles going faster now. She was getting control of them—and of herself.
“Why isn’t the morning good? Speak. Why isn’t it good, Carmen?”
“Quien sabe—who knows!” she replied with exasperating coolness.
“I know—I know all; and it is enough for a lifetime,” he challenged.