Sybert turned his eyes away from her with a gesture of indifference.
‘Oh, if it’s merely bloodshed you’re after,’ he said dryly, ‘you’ll find as much as you like in any butcher’s shop.’
She watched him for a moment and then she observed, ‘I suppose you are disagreeable on purpose, Mr. Sybert. You have a—’ she hesitated for a word, and as none presented itself, substituted a generic term—‘horrid way of answering a person.’
He turned back toward her with a laugh. ‘If I really thought you meant it, I should have a still “horrider” way.’
‘Certainly I mean it,’ she declared. ‘I’ve always liked to read about fights and plots and murders in books. I think it’s nice to have a little blood spattered about. It’s a sort of concrete symbol of courage.’
‘Ah—I saw a concrete symbol of courage the other day, but I can’t say that it struck me as attractive.’
‘What was it?’
‘A fellow lying by the roadside, in a pool of dirty water and blood, with his mouth wide open, a couple of stiletto wounds in his neck, and his brains spattered over his face—brains may be useful, but they’re not pretty.’
She looked at him gravely, with a slow expression of disgust.
‘I suppose you think I’m horrider than ever now?’