"I tell you you don't know the first thing about it."
"I don't suppose you—beat her, did you?" It was too infuriating, having him meek like this!
His reply was barely audible. "I might better have done it."
Frederica sprang to her feet. "Well, then, I'll tell you!" she said. "I won't go to her. I'll go if you'll give me a free hand. If you'll let me tell her what I think of what she's done and the way she's done it—not letting you know—not giving you a chance. But go and beg her to forgive you, I won't.
"All right," he said dully. "You're within your rights, of course."
The miserable scene dragged on a little longer. Frederica cried and pleaded and stormed, without moving him at all. He seemed distressed at her grief, urged her to treat his request as if he hadn't made it; but he explained nothing, answered none of her questions.
It was an enormous relief to her, and, she fancied, to him, for that matter, when, after a premonitory knock at the door, Harriet walked in on them.
The situation didn't need much explaining, but Frederica summed it up while the others exchanged their coolly friendly greetings, with the statement:
"Rod's been trying to get me to go to Rose and say that it was all his fault, and I won't."
"Why not?" said Harriet. "What earthly thing does it matter whose fault it is? He can have it his fault if he likes."