"No," she said, without condescending to explain.
"Then I will tell you," said Ambrose. "It is about the Indians across the river. I must have some flour for them."
"Must?" she repeated, raising her eyebrows.
"They are suffering from hunger," he said firmly.
"You will have to see Mr. Strange," she said coolly. "He is in charge of the business."
"This is a question for the head to decide," warned Ambrose.
"You will have to see Mr. Strange," she repeated, unmoved.
Ambrose's eyes flamed up. For a moment the two pairs contended—Ambrose's passionate, Colina's steely. The man was struggling with the atavic impulse to thrash the maddening, arrogant woman creature into a humbler frame of mind.
It may be, too, that deep in her heart of hearts Colina desired something of the kind. Perhaps she could not master her worser self alone. Anyhow, it was impossible there in her own stronghold, with Simon looking on. They were too civilized or not civilized enough.
Ambrose merely bowed to her and led the way out of the room and out of the house.