Quivering from head to foot, Christian cried: “How dared you?” and ran from the room, pushing aside Miss Naylor and Greta, who stood blanched and frightened in the doorway.
Herr Paul stopped in his tramp, and, still with his eyes fixed on the floor, growled:
“A fine thing-hein? What's coming? Will you please tell me? An anarchist—a beggar!”
“Paul!” murmured Mrs. Decie.
“Paul! Paul! And you!” he pointed to Miss Naylor—“Two women with eyes!—hein!”
“There is nothing to be gained by violence,” Mrs. Decie murmured, passing her handkerchief across her lips. Miss Naylor, whose thin brown cheeks had flushed, advanced towards him.
“I hope you do not—” she said; “I am sure there was nothing that I could have prevented—I should be glad if that were understood.” And, turning with some dignity, the little lady went away, closing the door behind her.
“You hear!” Herr Paul said, violently sarcastic: “nothing she could have prevented! Enfin! Will you please tell me what I am to do?”
“Men of the world”—whose philosophy is a creature of circumstance and accepted things—find any deviation from the path of their convictions dangerous, shocking, and an intolerable bore. Herr Paul had spent his life laughing at convictions; the matter had but to touch him personally, and the tap of laughter was turned off. That any one to whom he was the lawful guardian should marry other than a well-groomed man, properly endowed with goods, properly selected, was beyond expression horrid. From his point of view he had great excuse for horror; and he was naturally unable to judge whether he had excuse for horror from other points of view. His amazement had in it a spice of the pathetic; he was like a child in the presence of a thing that he absolutely could not understand. The interview had left him with a sense of insecurity which he felt to be particularly unfair.
The door was again opened, and Greta flew in, her cheeks flushed, her hair floating behind her, and tears streaming down her cheeks.