"No," grunted Duncan peevishly, "you brought me here."
"I didn't bring you here to sulk. I hope, for your own sake, you haven't been behaving this way for the past six months. I understand you, but strangers might not appreciate such manners." She said this in the indifferent manner she invariably assumed when Duncan indulged in a display of temper, and it was this indifference which always made his outbursts so abortive.
"There is no need to behave so with strangers," he replied, trying to assume a sarcastic manner, and feeling, inwardly, that it was not successful. "They are usually civil to me."
"O, indeed! and pray how do I treat you?"
"Like a dog," he sneered gruffly.
"Like a pet poodle," she replied, "whom I allow to lie about the house in the snuggest corners; like a pet poodle whom I fondle when he is agreeable, and humor when he is snappish; but take care how you behave or I may think you are only a puppy."
Duncan jumped to his feet. "I won't be blackguarded," he muttered angrily.
Helen leaned forward and caught his hand.
"Come, Duncan, dear," she said, drawing him gently toward her, "you must sit down and tell me who it was that commenced this quarrel."
Duncan permitted himself to be drawn to the seat beside her. His heart was consumed with conflicting sentiments, but he felt that the courage which had made the quarrel in January possible was failing, and that he would be compelled to sue for peace. "I am not a child," he said, as though to expostulate against her manner.