He had never seen her look or speak like that—her face so hard, her eyes so stabbing! And he recoiled dumbfounded.
“What's the matter, Gyp?”
“Nothing. Only—don't pretend!” And, turning to the glass, she went on twisting and coiling up her hair.
She looked lovely, flushed from her ride in the wind, and he had a longing to seize her in his arms. But her face stopped him. With fear and a sort of anger, he said:
“You might explain, I think.”
An evil little smile crossed her face.
“YOU can do that. I am in the dark.”
“I don't in the least understand what you mean.”
“Don't you?” There was something deadly in her utter disregard of him, while her fingers moved swiftly about her dark, shining hair—something so appallingly sudden in this hostility that Summerhay felt a peculiar sensation in his head, as if he must knock it against something. He sat down on the side of the bed. Was it that letter? But how? It had not been opened. He said:
“What on earth has happened, Gyp, since I went up yesterday? Speak out, and don't keep me like this!”