Duncan started angrily. He was nettled at the tone of authority she assumed, so he replied: "I will do nothing of the kind. I see no reason why my actions should be accounted to, much less pardoned by, you."
"You big, foolish fellow," she laughingly said. "You have been spoilt by women. You expect that a declaration of independence delivered with so much bluster will anger me. Down on your knees and ask forgiveness."
Duncan jumped to his feet and paced the floor. He was too angry to speak at first, but he finally said in defiant tones: "I should think that my intended departure without your being informed of it, would be sufficient to advise you that your possible feelings on the subject were of supreme indifference to me."
"Indeed!" she replied, carelessly tossing aside the Bourget novel. "So I am to infer that Mr. Duncan Grahame, being weary of the woman upon whom he has previously pretended to bestow his favors, imagines that the easiest, and of course the most manly, way to rid himself of her is surreptitiously to steal away and leave her to discover his change of heart as best she can. Very well, so be it. But I really wish you would not molest that poor bear's head with the toe of your boot. If you have no regard for me, you should, at least, consider the feelings of my rug."
She quietly commenced reading her book, and the careless and continued tapping of the little bronze-toed slipper on the rug seemed to emphasize her apparently complete absorption in the words of the French romancer. There is no man—or woman either—who will not chafe under the strain of indifference, and Duncan was no exception to the rule. Open war he relished, but to be dismissed with peremptory coldness when he had intended to be the aggressor was humiliating to the strongest sentiment of his nature, his pride. He silently watched her, trying, meanwhile, to formulate some plan of action. Angry words rose to his lips but were checked by prudence. He had lost his temper too much, he thought. His eyes carelessly wandered toward the book she was reading; "Cœur de femme" were the words printed across the yellow cover leaf. "If that Frenchman understands his subject," he thought, "she will read somewhere in that book that a woman's heart adores its master and detests its slave. Bourget is an analyst of nature, they say. Could he teach me more than that submission can never be success. Thank you, Monsieur Bourget; your yellow cover has given me an idea." Then, assuming an air of mock humility, he said: "I have been waiting to hear if you have anything further to add to your discharge."
She slowly raised her eyes from her book and said coolly, "Nothing whatever. I think you understand me perfectly; if you are satisfied I am." Then she turned again to the book, apparently vexed at the interruption.
"Very well," he replied. "Since the understanding is mutually perfect, please accept the conventional expressions of leave taking, and permit me to say 'adieu'."
"That is a favor you can easily obtain," she replied. "But pray spare me the task of calling a servant; this book is intensely amusing, and I feel sure you know all the doors of the house."
"By Jove, you are a keen one," Duncan muttered to himself; then he slowly walked to the door, put on his coat, took his hat, turned up his collar, opened the door, and descended the steps. "That woman," he thought, "is a sportsman to the bone, but it will do her good to leave her for a while. She's a thoroughbred, though, and I wish I didn't love her."
Mrs. Osgood listened quietly until the door had shut and the sound of his steps had died away. "So he expected me to act like a school-girl," she said, half aloud. "Some women are fools, I suppose. I am glad he did not bluster any more. I hate a man who loses his temper. So, Mr. Duncan, you want to leave me. You have my permission; but you will soon be back, and then perhaps you will hear me tell you that I—no you won't, for I want to keep your handsome, curly head all for myself."