"After all I've been through the past weeks," she said bitterly, "I didn't care whether I lived or died."
"I meant to have come at once as I wrote you. But mammy's illness and death made it impossible to get here sooner."
"One excuse is as good as another," she retorted with a contemptuous toss of her head.
Norton looked at her in blank amazement. It was inconceivable that this was the same woman who wrote him the simple, sincere appeal a few weeks ago. It was possible, of course, that suffering had embittered her mind and reduced her temporarily to the nervous condition in which she appeared.
"Why do you keep staring at me?" she asked again, with insolent ill-temper.
He was so enraged at her evident attempt to bully him into an attitude of abject sympathy, he shot her a look of rage, seized his hat and without a word started for the door.
With a cry of despair she was by his side and grasped his arm:
"Please—please don't!"
"Change your tactics, then, if you have anything to say to me."
She flushed, stammered, looked at him queerly and then smiled: