“How?” he asked, agreeably flattered.
“More conceited than ever!” said Jessie, suddenly changing her mind.
That was Jessie’s way. She had decided to conceal her real thought. In order to raise a dust, she rattled on: “You always look at me as much as to say: ‘Oh, mumma! look what the cat’s brought in!’ ”
Wilfred laughed, and felt uneasy. What had she seen? Was his face thus easily to be read in the afternoon sunshine of the Avenue? He made haste to give Jessie a humorous account of the boarding-house in the country that he had discovered for himself, and could not recommend. Jessie punctuated the story with scornful little snorts of laughter, shooting glances of her bright eyes into his face, that fairly snapped with some feeling mysterious to Wilfred.
Arriving before the house where she was expected, they paused at the foot of the steps. Said Wilfred, concluding his story:
“Above all, avoid a high-brow boarding-house. Intellectual table-talk is no compensation for watery hash.”
At that Jessie exploded. It was not a loud explosion, but it had force. “You make me sick, Wilfred! Does that reach you? I’d like to smack your grinning face . . . !”
“Why . . . go ahead!” said Wilfred, astonished, but grinning still.
“Don’t speak to me! Or you’ll make me say something I’ll regret! You’re a fool, do you hear? All men are fools, and you’re the greatest! Oh, I’d like to take you down a peg! I’d like to do something that would really hurt you! But you’ve got no feelings! You’re just a conceited grinner! Stand there and laugh at me, do! Your mouth’s too big; why stretch it wider? Oh, you’re such a fool it’s past all bearing!”
And with that, she scampered up the steps without a backward look.