She was bravely straining her intelligence, like a bow, to drive her arguments far forward; she wanted her explanation to be sincere and loyal as well as decisive; and all the time he was repeating in a strangled voice:
“Your dot? You had no dot?”
He showed a tone of command that he got from his father, and gave his orders sharply:
“Speak. You must tell me now.”
She was surprised, dismayed, staring at him almost in terror. This big young man of twenty-five, so sweet, so adorable, whom she had felt so sure of, lo, how abruptly he became the master. Then she had not yet explored all the corners of this heart that she had thought was hers. Instinctively, to shield their love, she shifted her tactics, and yielded up the least possible portion of the truth.
“My dot, Maurice? It truly belongs to me, my dot.”
“Where did it come from? It was not settled on you, then, by your relatives? Oh, I can guess how it was. It was he, wasn’t it, who settled it on you in your marriage contract? Answer me.”
She tried to hold out against him.
“Yes, it was he who gave it to me. And afterwards? It’s mine now.”
He was more upset than she was, but contained his anger on account of the passersby, going on with his questioning of her, nevertheless.